By the Book
by this thorn
Summary: After an accident, Ken loses his memory. Schuldig plans to take advantage of it, but how long can he stay in control? Shounen-ai. Rated for language and adult themes.
1. Not good enough

Title: By the Book

Author: this thorn

Disclaimer: Like I own any of these characters. Sheesh. I didn't even write an OC this time.

A/N: The only pairings that matter in this world are Schuldig/Ken, Crawford/Schuldig, Farfarello/Ken and, if the author is _damned _good, Aya/Youji. Honestly…those Weiß boys don't know how to enjoy life. For that reason, I believe it is impossible to write a good story without Schuldig.

Also, we may as well call this an Alternate Universe fiction, if only because I'm too lazy to try to make it fit into any specific timeframe from the series. I want the colorful characters, not their gray, angst-ridden sagas.

And more: this fic will use a minimum of Japanese and German. If I wanted the story in one of those languages, I would write it that way – though less people would read it, then, and I want some bloody reviews. So, except for Omi's "-kun" and perhaps a Japanese term if there really is no equivalent in English, there's no Japanese here. German is only for small instances where Schuldig wants to annoy Crawford. And it will most likely be colorful swearing that I will not translate to English. Deal.

„_You're not good enough."_

Ken twisted on his bed and pressed his pillow over his head, trying to silence the cold, rigid voice echoing in his mind.

"_Go away. You're not good enough."_

Ken could admit that it was his fault. He started it. He just hadn't expected the rejection to be so complete, so devastating.

After months of watching Aya, marveling over his skill, his strength, his untouchable stoicism, Ken had finally got up the nerve to approach him. To ask him out.

In retrospect, he realized it was a foolish idea. Aya had never shown the slightest inclination toward liking him, or even respecting him. The Ice Prince didn't even offer him the expected battlefield camaraderie.

Still, like the impulsive kid he still was sometimes – the wrong times – he'd gone ahead and approached Aya one evening while he was counting down the register. It must have taken him ten minutes to finally circle around and stammer out what he wanted: dinner and a movie, but Aya wasted no time in replying.

"No."

He didn't offer a reason, just went back to his work as if Ken wasn't still standing there, heart somewhere between beating out of his chest and stopping altogether. To his credit, Ken allowed himself, he hadn't tried to press the embarrassing situation further. He hadn't demanded a reason or tried to plead his case. He let it drop and went about his day.

That was a week ago.

Things with Aya had been somewhat tense then. If was at all possible, Aya talked even less, and to Ken not at all. Neither Youji nor Omi seemed to notice any difference, but it grated on Ken so badly he was glad for every flower delivery that got him out of the suddenly suffocating store, and he once almost fought with Omi when he spotted him heading for the delivery bike one afternoon with a bouquet of roses.

Was Aya mad at him?

It would be impossible to determine just from watching the aloof assassin. If he was capable of any expression whatsoever, he hid the ability well. In fact, during that week, things remained so unchanged that Ken almost convinced himself he was imagining Aya's strange behavior. Until Aya had finally decided to speak to him not two hours ago.

Ken had been working on an elaborate flower arrangement quietly in the back of the shop. He was rather content for once to be in the shop, lost in his own world as he toyed with the colors and lengths of different blossoms. He clipped the stem of a red rose and twirled it experimentally in his fingers a few times before it fell to the ground. When he stood from retrieving it, he found himself staring into Aya's violet eyes.

"Go away. You're not good enough."

Aya had snatched the flower from his hands and, in that familiar way of his, began working on the arrangement as though Ken was no longer there.

For once, he would have been right.

Ken had run immediately to his room and locked the door behind him, not wanting any concerned coworker to follow him and find him crying like a child into his pillow.

After the nervousness and waiting and ignoring, he finally had his answer.

"_You're not good enough."_

The one sentence clarified everything so easily. The reason Aya didn't want to go out with him, the reason he couldn't play soccer anymore, the reason he was so unhappy with his life in general.

He considered grabbing his bugnuks and finding something – anything – to destroy, but he realized it was stupid. He wasn't even a good assassin. Aya and Youji were good at it – strong and professional killers – and Omi was smart – smart enough to move onto something better. And where did that leave him? A second rate loser.

Ken vaguely realized he was drowning himself in self-pity but, all things considered, there really didn't seem to be any other good options. So for two hours he laid on his bed futilely trying to find a reason to get off it. Omi stopped outside his door once to check on him, but when he didn't respond to the concerned questions, the younger boy had despairingly left him in peace.

He was still on his bed when his brooding was disturbed by a knock on the door.

"Ken," Youji's voice came clearly through the thin wood, "Manx's here. Come downstairs."

Ken got up, scrubbing his eyes. He hoped it wouldn't be too obvious that he'd been crying. It would be nice to at least retain some small amount of dignity.

Reaching the briefing room he found the rest of his teammates already seated and watching the screen. He was silently glad he didn't need to face Aya and stood behind a pillar, making himself as invisible as possible. By the time he got himself situated, though, and found time to focus on the mission detail, Persia was already wrapping up his speech and Manx was handing out dossiers to each of them.

"Are you all in?"

Ken nodded absently as he skimmed through the pages in the folder. There was something about illegal arms – seemed to be international – and the two heads were based just outside Tokyo.

"All right, you'll need to split up for this one. Balinese and Bombay will handle Mr. Naginata and the retrieval of client data, and Abyssinian and Siberian will take care of Mr. Nodachi."

Ken snapped to attention. He still couldn't see Aya, but he was sure the redhead was glaring at Manx by the sudden strict frown she directed at him.

"You boys know what to do. I expect nothing less than perfection. You've got all the information this time. Ciao."

Suiting up in his room an hour later, Ken couldn't help but feel apprehension for the coming mission. The targets were on opposite sides of the city. Youji and Omi would be taking care of one – rather, Youji would take out the target while Omi hacked the computer. But Aya and Ken only had one objective, one man to kill. They would have to work together.

Ken grimaced. He didn't want to be in a situation where Aya could judge him. Tell him again how inferior he was. If it wouldn't be clearly proving Aya's earlier statement true, he would have looked for a way to get out of the mission. It wasn't like they needed him there.

He sat on his bed toying with his bugnuks, unwilling to leave the quiet safety of his room. Finally Aya knocked on his door.

"Siberian. We're leaving."

_Wow, not even my name_.

The ride to the site was silent.

Aya parked the car well away from the building where the target was located in between two rusted warehouses. After a brief run toward the office building, Aya stopped them near a stand of large bushes.

"Stay here. I don't need you for this."

Ken couldn't force himself to respond. It was what he had expected, after all, but it was still frustrating to hear it again from Aya. Without another word, the redhead disappeared, trenchcoat gently billowing behind him.

Crawford smiled wryly as he watched the two assassins approach the building.

"It's time to leave. He's here," he said, turning from the window. "Are the explosives in place?"

Schuldig closed his eyes for a long moment, concentrating. "Yeah," he answered with a smirk.

Crawford gave a curt nod and headed for the door. "You'll lead him out?" he said, not turning around.

Schuldig didn't answer. He knew it was a command, not a suggestion, regardless of how lightly Crawford may have said it.

The front door was easy and with a passcode to disable the alarm, Aya had no trouble reaching the uppermost floors of the building where the target was supposed to be meeting with a client. There were no guards, and Aya walked quietly down the hallways, scanning the doors for Nodachi's office.

As he rounded the corner he caught a glimpse of unnaturally red hair.

_Schwarz_.

Aya's mind made connections even as he took off after the enemy assassin. Schwarz worked for Takatori. Takatori wanted power. Weapons could give him power. Takatori was the client meeting with Nodachi.

His thoughts were still racing as he burst out of the building, heart pounding with the effort of chasing down the agile telepath. Looking around frantically, he finally spotted him racing toward a black limo parked two blocks away.

_Takatori._

Ken watched as Schuldig ran out of the office, closely followed by Aya. Aya who had only entered moments before, whose unbloodied katana glinted in the moonlight. It didn't take Ken more than a moment to surmise what had happened.

_Obsessed idiot._

The mental insult cheered Ken somewhat, knowing that in at least one thing he had more control than his otherwise perfect teammate. With that added confidence, Ken broke cover for the building, charging up the stairs to the executive area. With Schwarz around there really wasn't much need to be secretive. Speed was more important by far. Ken found the president's office almost immediately and hurtled through the door. To find a dead president.

The balding man was slumped over his desk, innumerable knife wounds spilling blood over the dark wood. Ken panicked for an instant, recognizing instantly that Aya hadn't been the one to kill the target. He scanned the shadows for the killer, but found no one, and quickly tore out of the room.

He hadn't taken three steps into the hall when he heard and felt a strange rumble beneath him. He reacted before his mind completely registered the cause, leaping from the window and praying something would break his fall, even as a wave of heat propelled him from behind and the world went dark.

Schuldig grinned at the unconscious assassin at his feet. It was also fun to tease the swordsman with his speed, though Crawford had rather drearily insisted he cut the game short so they could leave before the authorities arrived.

The telepath winced slightly as the office building exploded, the roar tearing through the cool night. Farfarello calmly walked away from the building to the car, seemingly unfazed by the destruction he had just caused. Just as Schuldig was about to get in, however, he heard a dull but unmistakable thump not twenty feet from where he was standing.

Ignoring Crawford's angry shout to get in the damned car, Schuldig went to investigate, and was slightly surprised to find the twisted and broken body of one of the Weiß boys. His smirk quickly turned to a frown. He didn't really want the other assassins to die: they were an entertaining diversion at the very least. And especially this one – he wasn't as frightfully grim as his teammates.

Schuldig bent down and was somewhat relieved to find that the brunet was still breathing. He quickly glanced back to the waiting limousine and the unconscious redhead and an idea formed in his mind. He began explaining it to Crawford even as he carefully hefted the battered assassin into his arms and returned to the car.

Crawford glared at him for a moment before his expression suddenly softened and he helped ease the boy through the door.

Schuldig could have sworn he saw the American smile.

At the sound of sirens Aya's eyes snapped open.

He heard the building next to him burning before he actually saw it, but he knew immediately that it meant trouble. Police and firefighters were already speeding down the road.

Aya leapt to his feet and began running for the car, briefly looking around for Ken, but assuming he'd be waiting at the vehicle. He found himself briefly annoyed that Ken had done nothing to extract him from the situation once the building had exploded, but he decided he could deal with that indiscretion later.

But he couldn't stop himself from cursing loudly when he reached the car and found no Ken. A glance back at the building assured him there was no way to safely extricate Ken if he was still there.

If he got caught, it was his own fault.

Ken: So he just _left_ me?

Schuldig: Don't worry, kitten, I'll take care of you.

Ken: What's that supposed to mean?

TT: grins

Ken: WHAT!?!

Aya: Serves you right.

Ken: What the HELL did I ever do?


	2. That's all there is to say

See previous chapter for warnings and other nonsense.

A/N: So this is a bit more AU than I planned, but it's rather explainable. It follows most of the events of the animated version of Weiß Kreuz…just that the team finds out about Aya-chan and Schwarz sooner, and everything can be assumed to occur the same – without Ken. He's…ur…absent. For the timeline I'm using, there's no OOC. That's something. Just go with it.

Aya pulled silently into the garage, idly noting the Seven was already parked there, and probably had been for some time.

Youji jumped to his feet as soon as Aya entered the house, eyes darting behind his sunglasses.

"Aya! Where the hell is Ken!"

Aya just stared, then moved to go upstairs.

"Aya!"

"I don't know," he growled and disappeared into his room.

Youji fumed. It was one thing to be cold and silent, but to not look after a teammate and, worse, not seem to care what happened to him went beyond the bounds of Youji's tolerance. He was ready to follow Aya and beat him into answering.

"Youji-kun!"

Youji turned back to find Omi seated at the counter staring raptly at the television. The light from the screen illuminated the boy's face red and orange.

A cold anxiety took hold in Youji's chest as he crossed the kitchen in long strides and found his disbelieving stare also fixed on the flashing image.

Firefighters were vainly trying to extinguish the conflagration that had suddenly overtaken a large office building on the outskirts of Tokyo. Youji's mind was rapidly denying every word even as the reporter began to describe the extent of the destruction.

"It is believed there was nobody in the building at the time…"

Youji was screaming inside for it to be true, but he knew there was no way the reporters could expect a young assassin to have been stalking through the deserted hallways that night. And if he was in there when the building exploded – if he was still there – there was no way he was still alive.

Omi started when Youji's fist slammed into the counter next to him, but he didn't turn to look as Youji stormed out of the kitchen and upstairs.

"Aya! Open the damned door!" Youji bellowed, slamming his fist against the wood in a violent parody of knocking. "What the hell happened out there! Open up, you bastard!"

The door suddenly vanished from beneath Youji's hand and he found himself staring into Aya's stormy violet eyes. For a moment, Youji almost thought he looked remorseful.

"I don't know what happened, Youji," he said flatly, as though every word was being wrenched out of him. "Schwarz was there. I was unconscious."

Youji stared incredulously at the redhead, wondering if he had truly just heard an admission of failure from his younger teammate. Despite Aya's dangerous expression, though, he felt the need to press further.

"And the target?"

"I don't know."

Aya's answer was brief, but it spoke volumes. Months of living with the icy assassin forced a person to become an expert in reading body language and reading between the lines. Aya had lost control of the situation, and he was embarrassed.

"So Ken's…" Youji couldn't find it in himself to finish the question, but Aya was just as good at understanding the silence as he was at implementing it.

"Probably."

"What happens now?"

"We wait for Manx."

As always, Youji found himself thankful for Aya's confidence in the face of disaster, though he dimly realized that even Aya's posturing wouldn't help ease the loss of a friend.

"I'm going to go talk to Omi," Youji all but whispered, knowing his tone would tell Aya exactly what the topic of the conversation would be. "Do you need anything?"

"No," came the standard reply. And then, "Not now."

Youji smiled bleakly and went downstairs.

Schuldig leaned back in his chair, balancing two legs on the ground. The effort of remaining upright was a meager but welcome diversion from the boredom that was threatening to drive him insane more quickly than the cacophony of voices in his head surely would.

The room was a makeshift hospital. Schuldig had only entered it once before after a particularly nasty gunshot wound, but he otherwise avoided it entirely. The walls were clinically white, almost painfully bright with the sun shining in the tall, curtainless windows. The Weiß assassin was carefully arranged in a large bed, hooked to an IV and heart monitor that was thankfully noiseless, while Schuldig was given a worn cot and a hard wooden chair to sit in as he guarded the sleeping boy. He had been out cold for eight days. For the first two Schuldig had amused himself by listening in on the brunet's jumbled thoughts, but they became more and more miserably fragmented with every passing hour until it only served to give him a massive headache. He had tried to find another source of amusement – hell, _any_ source of amusement – in the room, but even his most pathetic desire went unfulfilled. The windows were bolted against outside noises and he all too quickly tired of singing and humming. There weren't any decorations for him to inspect nor patterns in the floor or paint for him to trace with his eyes. Nothing.

And he wasn't allowed to leave the room to seek other distractions.

Since bringing the kitten back to the house was Schuldig's idea, Crawford had judiciously decided it would be he who watched him until he woke up, as well. In an attempt to retain some pride and keep Crawford from lording over him any more than necessary, he ordered the other Schwarz members out of the house, insisting that he would in no way be locked in a room with nothing to do but listen to their inane thoughts.

Schuldig briefly considered going out to look for a deck of cards, but it would be just his luck if the Weiß boy woke up while he was gone and escaped. In fact, Crawford was probably planning on it. Knowing the smug bastard, he allowed Schuldig to kick him out of the house because he'd had some vision of the redhead letting the enemy sneak out during a moment of incompetence that would be severely punished later on.

He was almost beginning to regret his decision to bring the enemy assassin back to the house. It had been over a week since he had gone out to terrorize the good people of Japan, visit the clubs, or just get laid. He knew someone with less will power than himself might have gone stir crazy already, but even that empowering thought was of small comfort. Not for the first time Schuldig considered just killing the kitten and ending his torment.

But even Brad had admitted his plan was a good one. They had in their possession the least convicted of all the Weiß assassins, the one most likely to join them if they were so kind as to save his life and nurse him back to health. Schuldig almost giggled aloud when he thought of the remaining three killers finding out the quiet brunet had turned on them. And, if he couldn't be convinced to switch sides, it would be easy enough to kill him, weakened and outnumbered in the Schwarz house. Either way they would be pruning the opposition, but the prospect of some mental and emotional torture just served to sweeten the deal for the telepath.

Said telepath was standing up to stretch his legs when he caught the first flash of active mental noise from the unconscious boy. Schuldig regarded him with a smirk and dragged his chair to the bedside, wanting to be close enough to slit the young assassin's throat if he should prove unmanageable. No sense wasting any more time with an unwilling plaything.

Schuldig arranged himself carefully on his chair, resting his elbows on raised knees and chin upon his hands, attempting to look pleasant if not friendly. He had to force himself not to smirk at the brunet's tumultuous thoughts as he struggled to gain consciousness. He reeled between confusion and fear so chaotically his head whipped back and forth upon the pillow.

Finally the Weiß assassin managed to crack one eye open, grimacing at the brightness of the room. Schuldig waited with a patience born of mischief as his patient slowly began to pull the room around him into focus. After staring at him for some time, moving his lips dryly, Schuldig realized the young man needed water and hurriedly passed him the glass from the bedstand. The brunet continued to stare as he cautiously sipped the water, and Schuldig was mildly bemused by the lack of recognition in his eyes.

The glass was passed back to him and the boy licked his lips several times before speaking.

"Who are you?"

Schuldig didn't need to feign shock at the question. He was sure it was written clearly on his face. He quickly sifted through the younger man's thoughts and found…a whole lot of nothing: _Where am I? Who am I? What happened? Why doesn't he answer?_

A new plan began rapidly congealing in Schuldig's mind. If the Weiß assassin didn't know he was either Weiß or an assassin, it wouldn't take much to convince him to side with Schwarz. In fact, with a careful play of sincerity, it wouldn't take much to convince him of anything. It took all his willpower to suppress a smirk.

Instead, Schuldig turned worried eyes on the confused brunet. "You…you don't remember me?" He mentally congratulated himself at the pain he could hear in his voice, and again at the guilt plainly expressed on the other man's features.

"I'm sorry," he stammered pitifully. "I don't know. I…Who am I?"

He looked close to tears and his battered frame was heaving with panic. Schuldig gave him his best reassuring smile.

"I'm Schuldig," he said, doing his best to sound somber despite the glee that was tingling throughout his body, "and you…your name is Matze."

The boy nodded shakily as he absorbed the small bit of information and was obviously trying to force himself to relax. Schuldig took the opportunity to gently force him to lie down again.

"You need rest now, Matze. We can talk when you're feeling better."

Strangely without protest, the young brunet closed his eyes and almost immediately fell asleep. Schuldig was glad for it: he needed time to work out the details of his plan and explain it to the others.

Youji and Aya were preparing to open the flower shop for the first time in a week. After the shock of the news report had set in, the three remaining assassins had come to an unspoken agreement that they needed time to be alone and think.

With each passing day there was less and less reason to hold onto hope that Ken was still alive somewhere. It was the risk of being an assassin, after all. They all knew the danger when they agreed to go on an assignment. They had all given up their lives long ago.

Still, Youji reflected, it wasn't making it easier to deal with. Omi had watched the office building blaze on every station until the coverage stopped, and hadn't left his room since. Even Aya seemed to be taking the loss personally, brooding in his room and only appearing when he made his now daily visits to his sister.

Youji had tried to maintain at least a small degree of normalcy, seeking out a bottle and a body to keep himself from collapsing with the wrongness of it all. It wouldn't have been so bad if he or Aya had been lost. They were cut out for the work, they could handle it. Ken and Omi were different. Despite the murdering and vigilante justice, they had someone remained almost childishly innocent. For Ken to be the one sacrificed to the madness they were involved in…it was just _wrong_.

A shrill feminine voice shook Youji from his musings, and he was surprised to find Manx standing next to him.

"Don't bother opening shop today, boys. We have to talk."

Aya led them to the basement, turning to glare at Youji at the top of the stairs.

"Yeah, I'll get him," Youji sighed.

Five minutes later the three remaining members of Weiß were seated in the briefing room. They were all tense, Omi leaning against Youji with his arms around his knees and Aya watching Manx with dangerous eyes.

"You know why I'm here," she began, leafing through a thin manila folder. "Siberian is gone. No traces of his body were found, but the remains of his weapon were discovered within the office building that burned to the ground last week."

Omi gasped and buried his face in Youji's shoulder. Youji himself bit his lip and put an arm around the young boy. It seemed they weren't to be given any reason to continue hoping.

"He has been gone for eight days. For your safety, as well as that of the organization, Ken Hidaka no longer exists in any form. This folder gives information for anyone who becomes curious," she handed the thin folder to Aya. "For your purposes, Ken has traveled to America to be with his ailing aunt. The phone number there will reroute to headquarters where someone will play the role of Ken's aunt and handle security. You three will do nothing to contradict that story, or you may be compromised as well."

The last was delivered with a distinct seriousness, but Manx's face showed her sympathy for the boys.

"That's all there is to say," she said, and stopped at the first stair. "I'm sorry."

Ken: My name's 'Matze' now? What the hell kind of name is that?

TT: I knew a guy named Matze once. He was a right bastard. But Ken's not. Ken is a good Matze.

Aya: Ken is gone. He went to visit a sick aunt and isn't coming back.

TT: Oh, shut up. We both know where Ken is.

Omi: No, Ken is away in the States. He's planning to stay there.

TT: Enough! I'm the one who told you guys to say that!

Manx: Um, hello, sweetheart?

TT: You're DONE, you old bat! One scene is enough for you!

Ken: Send her this way. I could use some company about now.

Schuldig: Company you say? Am I not good enough? I'll just lock the doors and then we'll have some time just for ourselves.

Ken: Thorn? Help?


	3. Morning, Sunshine

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: See first chapter

A/N: Really, Schuldig is the only truly _evil_ character in Weiß Kreuz. Reiji Takatori is ambitious, but he doesn't have the same lust for cruelty that my little redhead does. Or orangehead. Really, I prefer the green on him. But that's irrelevant at the moment. What matters is that, no matter how much you may hate Schu in my story, keep in mind that I love a good romance. Too much shounen-ai is filled with angst and tragedy; I prefer a happy couple. Not necessarily a happy ending, though. Watch it.

Also, it seems there's a complaint about using the name 'Matze.' Personally, I happen to like the name. I daresay it's better than most of the 'German' names people invent in these stories. And Matze is a pet of Schuldig's. He doesn't need a 'full' name. Nickname seems fine. And it's more 'normal' than something like, say, 'Schuldig.' But I'm not really trying to defend my name choice. I just think it's a silly thing to worry about. Ken seems like a 'Matze' to me. A Matthias, too, really. But my good friend assures me that no American can correctly pronounce 'Matthias.' So, think of the name as a favor to my American readers.

"So we're supposed to pretend that he's one of us?" Nagi Naoe asked incredulously.

Schuldig simply nodded.

"And that you're – "

"Yes," the telepath interrupted. "Just keep your stories straight and this shouldn't be a problem. As long as you don't contradict yourselves he'll never be able to catch you lying."

Crawford decided to speak for the first time since Schuldig had begun his enthusiastic explanation of the situation.

"You realize amnesia is only temporary," he said in his casually condescending tone, usually implying he knew more than he let on. "If he should come in contact with the other members of Weiß or other familiar things, his memory might be restored to him."

Schuldig just waved a dismissive hand. "We can keep him in the house until I feel he's ready. I know what I'm doing."

Crawford's lips curved in some private amusement as he settled himself silently into his chair.

"Any more objections?"

Nagi rose abruptly. "Just keep him out of my way," he said sharply and retreated to his room, slamming the door behind him.

Farfarello also rose from his crouch. "The heart is deceitful above all things, and desperately wicked: who can know it?" he quoted enigmatically, and followed Nagi.

Schuldig stared after them, baffled, then, with an exasperated sigh, returned to the hospital room.

He didn't have to wait long for his new pet to wake up again.

"Good morning, Matze," said the redhead with a particularly sunny grin.

"Hi…Schuldig," he murmured hesitantly, though his nervousness quickly vanished at the redhead's apparent delight at his recollection of the name.

"Did you sleep alright?"

"Um…yeah."

"I'm glad to hear it," Schuldig said, perhaps looking a little too glad. "Though our bed is certainly more comfortable…"

Matze blinked owlishly several times, but his mouth wouldn't form the questions he wanted to ask. Schuldig's already insane grin seemed to broaden as he leaned forward in his chair and took Matze's left hand between his own.

"How about we start with what happened?" Schuldig suggested, aiming for a tone that was casual yet stressed – anything but the buzz he was feeling at the brunet's willingness to lap up everything he said. "You had an accident. You fell from the roof. Eight stories."

"Eight stories?...and I'm still alive?"

Schuldig was so excited he had to look down at their joined hands so Matze wouldn't see the amusement burning in his eyes. "I didn't see what happened, but something must have broken your fall: you didn't even have any broken bones, just…" he let himself trail off sadly, and gave a shaky sigh for dramatic effect. This was too much fun. He was glad the kid didn't ask what he was doing on the roof in the first place. There was a story invented for that, too, but the less information he had, the better.

"So…do we – you and I – do we _share_ a room?"

Schuldig allowed himself a brief smirk before snapping his head up to see Matze's nervous gaze focused on their hands, still clasped together. He gave the hand imprisoned within his own a gentle squeeze and Matze almost jumped as he turned to meet Schuldig's eyes.

"You don't remember _anything_?" Schuldig tried to sound pleading, even though he knew maybe even better than Matze the lack of memories or anything else interesting swirling around inside that brunette head. The ex-Weiß assassin said nothing but stared with wide confused eyes waiting – no, begging – for an explanation. It was almost too easy.

Schuldig let the silence draw out, watching Matze squirm anxiously, but when he felt his lips curving in an involuntary grin he decided to jump right in. "We've been together for over a year, Matze."

The redhead was almost disappointed by the lack of outward reaction, so he pulled Matze's captured hand to his lips and placed a lingering kiss on his palm. That seemed to bring it all home.

The brunet's thoughts were spinning. _I'm gay? Does he love me? Is this our house?_

Schuldig resisted the urge to snort aloud at Matze's far-too-innocent understanding of the situation. He was almost bursting to tell Matze the sordid story of how they first met. It was a remarkably embarrassing tale: the brunet was portrayed as a nymphomaniac who spotted poor, unsuspecting Schuldig studying at a library. Using fervent excuses and a near-violent grip, he had led the redhead to the bathroom where he then _begged_ the older man to screw him senseless.

Schuldig knew the story would quite abruptly squash all the romantic notions running through Matze's head, but he didn't want to appear too eager to offer the information. It wouldn't be believable, and he was sure Matze would start asking questions in due time. Still, the anticipation was killing him.

Matze finally seemed to settle for the least provocative question. "Is this our home?"

Schuldig paused to mentally page the others before answering. "Yeah, we're in the…guest room. Would you like to meet our roommates now?"

Matze had no time to consider as the door opened and Crawford strode through, followed by an apparently reluctant Nagi.

"This is Brad Crawford," Schuldig said, pointing to the American.

"Bradley. And it's good to see you're feeling better, Matze." Crawford shot Schuldig a pointed glare before attempting a friendly smile for the brunet's sake.

"And this little shrimp is Nagi Naoe. He spends most of his time at school or studying, so you shouldn't run into him too much," the redhead explained, his words as much an introduction as a warning to the irritated boy.

"It's nice to meet you," he said with undisguised spite. "Again," he added at Schuldig's loud mental insistence.

Matze looked startled at the boy's vehemence so Schuldig leaned to whisper in his ear. "Sorry, he's homophobic." The brunet just nodded absently, unable to tear his eyes from Nagi's glare.

"Thanks, guys," Matze managed to stammer, though he was almost certain neither of the men were all that glad to see him.

"Farfarello also lives here," Schuldig interjected, "but he tends to keep to himself."

Matze frowned slightly at the redhead's cryptic statement, but the bright grin he received convinced him that nothing was amiss.

"If you would leave us alone now, gentlemen…" Schuldig's voice had a slight edge. Matze found himself grabbing for Schuldig's hand again as their roommates left. It was comforting after rather unpleasant pleasantries that had just occurred. The telepath had to lower his head so his fallen hair would hide his vicious smirk. _So easy…_

"So," Schuldig murmured through the cloud of his flaming red hair, "do you think you'd feel up to going out tomorrow? We need to get you some new clothes."

For the first time Matze noticed he was wearing nothing but a hospital gown. He frowned slightly and pulled Schuldig's hand closer to him, a silent gesture to get the other man to look at him. "What happened to my old clothes?"

Schuldig grimaced at the memory – not of burning the assassin's things or whatever Matze might be expecting, but of the almost enthusiastic refusal of his teammates to help his ruse by picking up clothes and other effects for his pet. He'd invented a story for that one, too, but he hadn't imparted it to the other members of Schwarz. Hopefully Matze wouldn't question anyone about it.

"I was so devastated when the doctor said you were in a coma," Schuldig paused to draw a shaky breath, "I destroyed a lot of your things. I just…I didn't think you would ever come back to me."

Matze seemed to blossom under the tender words, and Schuldig found himself almost disappointed that there was nobody to watch his performance – at least no one who would appreciate it for what it was. He was spouting bullshit like a priest and Matze was eagerly swallowing every word of it.

"I…how long was I…?"

"Just over two months," Schuldig embellished, watching with glee as Matze's expression became more remorseful than shocked. A perfect setup for the next turn. It was time to end the romantic crap – Schuldig was already becoming annoyed with Matze's mooning looks.

"Our bed's been so lonely without you," he said, giving the other man a suggestive grin. "I thought you might want to join me tomorrow night? I've missed you so much…"

_Oh my GOD what do I DO!?_

Schuldig had to cough to hide his laughter as the panicked thought screamed in Matze's head. He resisted the urge to make up Matze's mind for him and instead enjoyed playing audience to the other man's internal argument.

_He's my _boyfriend_. But I hardly _know_ him! But that's not _his_ fault. But he's been _waiting_. I'm just not ready…_

Schuldig sensed the boy's inhibitions winning out, so he jumped in to swing things in his favor again. "Maybe it will help you remember something?" he suggested, feigning helpfulness. "Besides, it's not like you have any pajamas."

The way the redhead's eyes were gleaming, Matze could have sworn he destroyed his clothes just for this purpose, but that didn't make any sense. Schuldig wouldn't need a ploy to get him into bed. They _lived_ together, after all. He chanced a small smile as he made up his mind.

"Okay."

Schuldig grinned in triumph. It might have been more exciting if Matze hadn't looked so trusting and childish just then, but it was a win all the same. He had caught a kitten and had him completely at his mercy.

Ken: Does someone want to plan my funeral? It's in 24 hours.

TT: Don't be silly. Schuldig will take good care of you.

Schuldig: Of course I will, kitten.

Ken: For some reason, I don't trust either one of you.

Omi: Who are you two talking to? Ken's not here. He went to America to….

TT: You know, I'm not usually in to character death, but if you don't cut that out…


	4. It's not like he's badlooking

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: See first chapter

A/N: I just noticed that on some sites the story is rather…full of spaces. I apologize. This thing is cross-posted like mad, and most sites require the crazy spacing just to function properly. Just forgive me if there are spaces and they bother you. As long as I'm making demands, I should ask for a review or two. I know I have the main Schu/Ken plot, but I have a lot to work with in the background. Why is Nagi being such a pisser? Should Aya do something about his guilt? Does Crawford need to go out and do something? Honestly…if I'm going to start another plot thread, I should do it soon. I need suggestions!

Matze slept well that night, and the next day was rather peaceful. Schuldig came to bring him food and help him to the bathroom, but otherwise he was largely undisturbed.

With nothing else to do, the young man let his thoughts run wild. Something seemed slightly off between Schuldig and the others, and his otherwise inactive mind began inventing fanciful explanations for the seeming enmity.

_Maybe Nagi tried to kill me. And now that I'm still alive, he's angry and Schuldig's trying to cover it up so I don't…don't what? Go to the police? He's just a kid…_

Matze frowned. Accusing a high schooler of attempted murder? He was straying a bit too far from reality.

_Maybe_ I_ tried to murder _Nagi_. And Schuldig is keeping them from going to the police._

He watched his hands as he repeatedly flexed his fingers and felt a shudder run through his body.

_No way. I could never do something like that. I hope._

The brunet sighed, wincing as a small spasm of pain ran through his back. His musings were turning distinctly morbid. He cautiously turned onto his side and stared out the window. It would do good to get some more rest: he had an appointment with Schuldig come nightfall.

Matze closed his eyes with a grimace. _How am I going to manage that? I can't even walk to the bathroom without help, and now he wants me to…_ He felt his face growing warm and he suddenly wanted to hide beneath the sheets and never come out. He might not be a virgin in body, but his befuddled mind was a wholly different matter. _But I owe it to him…_

Matze closed his eyes softly and set about steeling himself for the night to come.

_It's not like he's bad-looking. _He grinned foolishly, recalling involuntary delight that the flaming-haired foreigner apparently liked him _that_ way. It was a great comfort to know he was not alone – and not with someone like the cold and aloof Crawford. Schuldig _cared_, at the very least. _He must have to take care of me for two months in a coma. He must have shaved me regularly, too._ Ken rubbed a hand over his smooth chin. At the thought of Schuldig performing the tender gesture he felt a warm tingling in his chest and turned to bury his smile in a pillow. _I feel like a boy in love!_ He almost caught himself giggling.

Still, he considered somberly, he felt guilty. Schuldig had memories of all the things they had done together over the past year, places they'd been, jokes they'd told, he probably even knew his favorite flavor of ice cream. _I don't even know that_. Matze made a mental note to ask Schuldig about how they met. That would be a start. And he wasn't likely to forget to do it: his internal corkboard wasn't exactly covered in announcements at the moment.

Matze smiled tiredly. He would try his best for Schuldig. Try his best to be the man Schuldig had known for the past year.

Schuldig awkwardly pushed through the door, a shopping bag in each hand and a cigarette clamped between his lips. Crawford had convinced him it would be too dangerous to take Matze shopping for clothes, so the German had spent a trying afternoon wandering the mall looking for some hapless man with the same build as his new pet to model outfits for him. It had taken a bit of convincing, but soon Schuldig found himself the one-man audience to a veritable runway show of everything from business suits to Speedos. And it always felt good to put some miles on Crawford's credit card.

Schuldig dumped the bags on the floor and grimaced. The house was quiet. He'd been glad for it when Matze was still asleep, but now it only served to unnerve him. He felt like he was out of the loop and, for a mind reader, that was never a pleasant realization. Brad occasionally let an errant thought Schuldig's way, but it was never anything of consequence. Usually something like 'Buy more Post-It Notes' or some other reminder. In retrospect, Schuldig considered for the first time, Crawford was probably trying to get him to run the errand. Oh well. Still, Crawford knew something. Something vital. He would never have agreed to play along with Schuldig's plan if it didn't somehow serve his private agenda. Or his private amusement. Schuldig fought the urge to storm into Brad's room and demand answers, now wanting the precog to have the grim satisfaction of knowing the German was upset.

Schuldig flicked his cigarette into the sink and collapsed into a chair, searching for Farfarello in the house. The Irishman was usually good for a moment or two of entertainment. His thoughts were broken glass and wavered between riddle and Scripture in a singularly aggravating way. Comprehensibility notwithstanding, it seemed Farfarello always had a deeper meaning behind what he said, whether it was readily visible or not. Schuldig had learned the hard way to pay attention to the seemingly random nonsense the blonde tended to spout.

As they were driving out to a mission one night, the Irishman had leaned toward the front seat and whispered in Schuldig's ear. "Giraffes sometimes catch birds."

The statement seemed so senseless that the German had merely scoffed and disregarded it, but later that evening one of the Weiß kittens had swung a sandbag meant to hit Nagi, and it sailed over the petit boy's head and struck Schuldig in the face. Hard. In fact it was _his_ Weiß kitten who had thrown it. Matze would have to pay for that, even if he didn't know what he was paying for.

Truthfully it had taken several more instances before Schuldig was willing to concede that it was actually worthwhile to listen to the madman and take the time to decipher his comments, but he admitted it nonetheless. SSo Schuldig gave Farfarello's awkward moments of lucidity a grudging respect, and sometimes sought out the cryptic thoughts to amuse himself in downtime. Unfortunately, he couldn't pick up anything from his insane teammate. _Probably passed out from blood loss._ Schuldig grimaced. He wasn't especially fond of spilling blood – most notably his own – especially when they were much more stimulating methods of torturing people.

His thoughts drifted to Matze, who was still sleeping. Or sleeping again. His was vaguely aware it might be too soon to be forcing his pet into any strenuous activity, but, really, it was his decision. Matze _belonged_ to him. He figured he was being fair enough: he hadn't once bothered the brunet beyond feeding him and hobbling him to the bathroom. The kid had better be damned grateful for the rest.

Schuldig frowned. The whole plan was taking more effort than he cared for. Just that afternoon he had spent a long while at the store considering buying condoms. Naturally it was safer, but if he and Matze had been together for over a year in a predominantly sex-based relationship, they probably would have taken the time to get checked out thoroughly. He knew well enough that both he and the former Weiß assassin spent enough time around criminals, blood, and who-knows-what else, but Crawford made sure his teammates stayed healthy, and Schuldig assumed Weiß had a similar arrangement, even if they weren't as close to each other as Schwarz. It made sense: an ailing assassin was no good to anyone. In the end, he'd grabbed a box anyway. Just in case.

But even if it became complicated, he was no longer willing to give up. Crawford would never let him live it down; the precog would never say anything, but it would just _be_ there, an unspoken 'I told you so.'

Schuldig regarded his watch with a smile.

_Oh, well. Matze will make up for all the hassle tonight._

Schuldig: You know, Thorn, I really don't do that much thinking. Are you trying to buy time so you can find a way to let the kitten off the hook?

TT: Hardly! I would never do that to you, Schuldig.

Ken: Hey! What about me! I thought I was your favorite!

TT: But Schuldig's German, you know? We have that kinship…

Ken: But he's an animal! You really have more in common with me. At least _I'm_ a decent human being.

Schuldig: Animal, hm? Is that what you're in to? I suppose we could arrange that…

Ken: WHAT!?

TT: gulp Yeah, Schu…I don't do beastiality…

Schuldig: Oh? So what _do_ you do, Kleine?

TT: Ken? Help?

Ken: You're on your own, freak.


	5. Goddammit

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: See first chapter

Warnings: I'm delaying the citrusy stuff in favor of getting all other involved parties up to speed with the situation. In my quest for realism, I usually avoid having more than one gay couple within a group of characters. It's hard enough to meet someone at a gay bar, yet alone just stumble across someone in your own house.

Still, I do have six boys doing absolutely nothing. Maybe Nagi should join the FFA?

They were closer than ever.

For two days after Manx paid them a visit, Aya refused to leave his room, Omi refused to leave his computer, and Youji refused to leave his bottle. They were living like strangers in the same house.

But on the third morning Aya came downstairs, looking like death warmed over, and started making breakfast. It seemed only right to Youji to put his liquor aside and he left silently to retrieve Omi from the basement.

After a quiet breakfast together, Aya had led them downstairs to watch a movie, a sorrowful glare silencing Omi's attempts to take himself elsewhere. The youngest member of Weiß showed some small surprise at the sudden change in atmosphere but, in his slightly clouded mind, it all made perfect sense to Youji.

Aya must have realized, the same as he did, just how much they had to lose. Youji had taken for granted that he joined Weiß because he lost everything else, and that he would never have anything again. It had taken losing Ken for him to recognize that, in his time at the flower shop, he had gained a family no less important to him than Asuka was. He'd lost a friend. A brother.

If Youji had any doubts as to his teammate's comprehension of the situation, Aya made it obvious when he sat apart from the others, watching them more than the movie, as though he were afraid to let them out of his sight for even a moment. Omi, on the other hand, was huddled about himself on the couch, tired eyes watching the movie without seeing.

Youji reached out and pulled the boy to him, feeling an unnamable pain well up inside him as Omi gripped his shirt desperately and began sobbing into his side. Suddenly Aya was sitting on his left, putting a strong arm about him. Youji pulled him closer with his free arm and dropped his head onto the redhead's shoulder, wanting the meager assurance that they three were still there. Aya apparently wanted the same thing, for he began running slender fingers through Youji's wavy hair.

They remained that way well after the movie was over, huddled together in the eerie blue light. A single tear splashed onto Youji's cheek and he smiled sorrowfully, giving both teammates a gentle squeeze. Somehow, he knew, they'd be all right.

Nagi read the sentence for the fifteenth time without understanding it.

How could he concentrate when there was a stranger asleep in the room right next to his? And not just a stranger, but one of the enemy!

The books on Nagi's desk began dancing off the shelf, but he didn't notice until a dictionary fell and landed on his hand.

"Goddammit!" he screamed, for once wishing he were as well-versed in cursing as Schuldig. Schuldig. Just the thought of the redhead infuriated him even more as he sent his pencil rocketing at the closed door. "Shit."

Nagi wanted to talk to someone. He considered Crawford first, knowing the issue was really the business of the team leader to begin with, but that wasn't an option at the moment. Crawford appreciated him for his professionalism and cool head – running into his room with accusations and a temper would get him kicked out just as quickly, and he could do without the embarrassment.

Farfarello was always willing to listen to him – a blessing he had been grateful for every day since they had first taken the Irishman from the asylum – but the madman was temporarily unavailable. He had been acting strangely ever since Schuldig had brought his new 'toy' home. Strange for Farfarello, at any rate. And Nagi couldn't blame him.

Talking to the telepath was even less of an option. Nagi wanted nothing more than to strangle him with his own bandanna. And 'Matze,' or whatever the idiot German was calling the Weiß assassin, was completely out of the question. He wasn't even in the same league.

Nagi had the urge to scream again: sometimes the sixth floor apartment seemed suffocatingly small. He felt trapped with them. They were his roommates, his coworkers, his friends, his family. He stuffed his books and laptop into his rucksack, determined to go somewhere else – anywhere else – but he never made it out his bedroom door. He realized there was nowhere else to go.

Matze woke to a scream. He lay staring at the ceiling for several minutes, but the noise was not repeated.

_Maybe I imagined it?_

With a sighed he rolled onto his side. The light entering through the tall window was his only means of telling time, and it told him his time was coming quickly.

As the room slowly grew dimmer his eyelids grew heavier, and he drifted again into a peaceful slumber.

Matze awoke again to find it was completely dark. He looked around, but couldn't see whatever caused him to wake up. He was still tired. Suddenly a pair of strong arms scooped him up from the side and he found himself staring into Schuldig's face.

The foreigner didn't say a word, but grinned. Evilly, Matze wanted to say, but it was probably just the lack of light – and maybe his own anxiety as well. Still feeling the gaze upon him he quickly turned his head into Schuldig's chest and threw his arms about him in the most comfortable way he could. The redhead seemed content enough for he began slowly walking for the door. Matze shuddered as the cold air of the hallway hit him and he chanced a glance back as his bed slowly receded and melted into the darkness. Suddenly, his vision was interrupted by a door. Turning his head around, he realized that Schuldig had brought him into his bedroom. _Our_ bedroom, Matze urgently reminded himself. _Our_ room.

Ken: This is depressing. Why did you ruin my life?

TT: Ruin? I'd like to think it's more like…changing your perspective.

Ken: You didn't need to throw me in the looney bin to do that.

Schuldig: Hey! I resent that!

Farfarello: Nothing lies behind the mirror.

TT: Exactly. And, really, it's not Ken's perspective that needs changing.

Ken: Not me?

TT: Nope. Not really.

Schuldig: Then whose?

Nagi: Shut up, you bastard.

Crawford: Nagi, go to you room.

Nagi: I'm already in there!

Crawford: I see. Then no more Internet porn.

Schuldig: I knew you had it in ya, kid!

Nagi: …


	6. An easy lay

Title: An easy lay

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: See chapter 1

Warnings: Lemon. Not so much Non-Con as it is…one-sided. Not my favorite thing to write, so I might skimp on some parts. I'm doing my best to keep this tasteful, but this is integral to the plot. If you don't like graphic sexual situations, don't read. I'll give a summary of the scene in the author's note for the next chapter, so you shouldn't miss much of the important information.

A/N: I love Ken. I really do. Any sadness or suffering inflicted upon Ken is done solely by Schuldig. I have no control over him. If anything, it's the other way around. But I have a goal for this story, and not even a sexy bastard redhead can distract me from it. Onward!

Schuldig dropped Matze unceremoniously onto the bed. Without sparing the boy a glance he returned to the door and locked it, switching off the lights. For some reason he didn't care to examine, he didn't want to see Matze's face.

The boy was sitting right where Schuldig had left him, watching him with wide eyes that glinted in the faint moonlight, trembling slightly. As Schuldig advanced on the bed Matze shuffled backward, trying to sit up. _It's okay. He won't hurt me. Settle down._

Schuldig felt annoyance building in him at the brunet's pathetic self-assurance. He didn't want his pet to be so…trusting. Schuldig wanted to see him afraid, angry, and, most of all, humiliated. Somehow he felt cheated.

In frustration he tore off his jacket and began furiously unbuttoning his shirt as he kneeled on the bed. Leaning forward as he rid himself of the twisted fabric, Schuldig reached for the boy in front of him. He placed fierce kisses on his neck, carefully avoiding his face, and bit and sucked at the soft flesh.

His annoyance was quickly turning into anger. Anger at the plan that was going so horribly wrong. It was supposed to be fun – a game; instead, keeping his pet was nothing but hard work and disappointment. And _they_ seemed to be enjoying it!

Schuldig tugged down the loose collar of the hospital gown and continued ravaging the skin he uncovered, his attacks becoming more intense and brutal.

It wasn't enough. Not fast enough, not hard enough. Not enough.

Some team. They had all turned against him. He imagined them sitting together when he was out, mocking his efforts as Crawford revealed some secret and amusing vision of Schuldig's future that had them all laughing to tears that they hastily wiped away just before he walked in the door.

He shuddered with emotion as he sat up and began working out of his pants. Before throwing them to the floor he fished the new tube of lubricant out of the front pocket and fumbled with the cap.

They had completely abandoned him. Not that it would usually make a difference, but this time it seemed spiteful. They banded together as one team against Matze and himself. Without Matze he was alone.

Somewhere between rage and fury Schuldig managed to open the lubricant and sloppily coated his already full erection, quivering with weeks of starvation. He didn't give much consideration to stretching the body beneath him; it didn't seem important at the moment. He did, however, rather roughly maneuver the other man onto his knees, facing away. Without wasting another second he lined up with the puckered opening and placed his hands on the shaking hips, forcing himself in in one motion.

Schuldig almost collapsed onto the body in front of him from the sheer intensity of sensation. The body in front of him, on the other hand, seemed to become boneless and melted down toward the mattress. The German vaguely registered whispered words, but the roaring in his ears and throbbing in his groin were demanding his full attention. While he slowly calmed down, he felt the other man returning to his position, albeit with trembling arms and legs.

As Schuldig's thoughts cleared his anger came rushing back to him, and he gripped the other man's hips with bruising force. He pulled out slowly, then began a constant pattern of short, hard thrusts. Despite the tingling coursing all the way to his fingertips, it seemed not even the pleasure of sex could erase the pain in his thoughts.

They think they can get to me by mocking me behind my back, he reasoned, not allowing himself to consider any of the less innocent possibilities. It wasn't the first time Nagi had been angry with him, but it was the first time he didn't say anything. He only talked to Crawford. Crawford. That pretentious bastard. Prancing around the house with that stupid 'I told you so' grin and his starched suits and ties and handkerchiefs and perfectly polished shoes. Oh, how he wanted to hit Crawford, but the bastard would probably see it coming a mile away. And then Farfarello: What right did he have to pass judgment? Sitting in his room and only talking when he wanted, like he always had to have the last word. Farfarello mocking him with his riddles and arbitrary silences. All of them…

Schuldig let out a strangled yell and pounded harder into the frail body.

Matze cried.

He was trying to hold the tears back, but the pain was incredible. Not just the pain of Schuldig's rough treatment, but the sharp ache of confusion. _Is this how it always is? Why won't he listen to me? I can't…_

With a cry that was little more than a gasp, Matze collapsed onto the bed and knew no more.

Suddenly the body Schuldig was thrusting into disappeared and he opened his eyes for the first time since he had begun. Matze lay before him, curled pitifully about himself on the dark rumpled sheets. His eyes and cheeks glistened wetly in the meager light, and his pale skin was quite obviously smattered with small dark flecks.

The German looked down at his pulsing erected and his mind roiled in an anger he could not begin to express. He didn't want to be there anymore. Not in the house with _them_. Not in the room with _him._ With a scowl he grabbed the sheet next to him and used it to wipe the remaining lubricant from his member and snatched up his clothes to dressing in the bathroom.

When he emerged, looking as decent as he cared to, he noticed Matze still curled up on his bed. A small twinge of guilt struck him at the sight of the unconscious boy, but he really wasn't in the mood to think about it. With some measure of exasperation he walked over and threw the comforter over the nearly naked boy. And left to find an easy lay.

TT: Well, that went better than I thought it would.

Schuldig: What are you talking about? The idiot fell asleep on me!

Ken: I PASSED OUT, you freak. I can't even walk and you expect me to play your whore for an evening.

Schuldig: Yeah.

Ken: Watch it, Carrot Top.

TT: Boys! Don't make me separate you. On second thought…


	7. You found me, therefore you name me

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: See Chapter 1

Warnings: I am not adverse to flames, but if you feel the need to do so, use proper spelling and punctuation. Unless you want to be laughed at for a fool.

A/N: First, a summary of the previous chapter for those weak of stomach (including myself): Schuldig practically rapes Matze, but doesn't really notice what he's doing, or even who he's doing it with. He's too lost in a fury engendered by his ascertation that all the Schwarz members have turned against him and abandoned him to isolation. And Matze, but Matze doesn't count. Finally, the poor boy passes out from over-exertion and Schuldig comes back to reality. Still unsatiated, the German dresses and goes out to find a hooker and a beer, but not before carelessly tucking Matze in.

Other notes: I was going to ask for help on Nagi's background and whatnot, but I got impatient and decided to go on my gut instinct. Turns out I was right on the mark. I found a long summary of his history and background, and my portrayal of him matches up perfectly. So there. If I'm doing this well, I might just need to write more Weiß Kreuz fics. It's not like _all the reviews_ would be enough to convince me…

Other other notes: I am writing some Farfarello in this chapter. For some reason I cannot find Weiß Kreuz manga. Even amazon.de has failed me. And I'm deliberately not including the drama CDs. So I am using a compilation of what I have read of him in other people's fictions, less the nonsense about a blender and " hurts God." I'm filling in the gaps in his character with myself. I am also a masochistic person with much nerve damage, often called insane and a certified sadist. I have short white hair and facial scars, and have been called a child genius by all who have studied with me. All things considered, I don't think you'll be able to tell what is me and what is him. And if you can and you don't like it, please feel free to flame me. I do, after all, still have two eyes. Maybe I'm just not seeing him clearly.

There was light and a faint buzzing. Then nothing.

Again light shone beyond his eyelids. With a groan he raised his arm to block it out. Nothing changed. He realized he hadn't moved – his arm still lay like a piece of lead upon the…the…where was he?

Tentatively he cracked an eye open and tried to examine the surroundings. He was staring at a high cream-colored ceiling. Turning his head revealed, among other things, that he had a splitting headache. When the sharp pounding subsided, his first question was answered: He was in a bedroom. On a bed, for that matter. The furniture scattered about the expansive room was of dark, elaborately carved wood and there was more than enough floorspace to host a disco. The walls were the color of rich sangria and rich cream curtains draped the windows and four-poster bed.

Pain lanced through him again when he tried to sit up. He winced and closed his eyes, trying to remember how he ended up in a regal bedroom alone and almost completely naked. The difficulty of the simple task reminded him quickly enough.

There was an accident. And Schuldig took care of him. He was Schuldig's lover. And Schuldig had wanted to…He furrowed his eyebrows. It made sense then that he would be in Schuldig's room, but why was he alone? He blindly scrabbled for a pillow and pressed it over his head, trying to smother the pain, but the soreness in his arms only grew worse.

_Where is Schuldig?_

Trying to form coherent thought only seemed to agitate his headache, so Matze relaxed and let himself drift off to sleep again.

When he awoke, he realized he was desperately thirsty. He weakly shoved the pillow away from his head and rolled onto his back, but the simple movement sent pain lancing from his head to his legs and back again, and he let out a silent cry. Allowing his head to tiredly loll to the side, he spotted a glass of water sitting on the bedstead, carefully place upon a cork coaster to protect the beautiful piece of furniture.

Matze gingerly inched his way across the bed until he was close enough to reach the glass. He brought the cup to his lips and eagerly swallowed every drop, less what spilled on his gown in his overzealousness. When he was finished he delicately replaced the glass and moved back to the center of the bed, feeling somewhat content despite his aches.

The question came back to him: Where was Schuldig? The events of the previous night were muddled at best. He remembered that Schuldig had wanted to have sex, but he couldn't recall actually doing it. Suddenly panic struck him: _Was I so bad that he left?_ The implications of the circumstance set him trembling and he was already planning his pleading apologies for when the redhead returned. He wanted nothing more than to make things right – the way they were before the accident. He almost cried whenever he considered how much it must hurt Schuldig to know his own boyfriend didn't remember him.

Matze tried to force himself to think rationally before he really did burst into tears. After all, there could be other explanations. Maybe Schuldig had said he was going somewhere, and Matze just didn't remember. He probably had to be to work early in the morning. That made just as much sense as the first option, and was infinitely more pleasant. Still, Matze was hesitant to ask Schuldig about what had happened. What if he really had disappointed the redhead? He didn't want that thrown back in his face. He was torn between wanting his boyfriend next to him like he had been the first time he woke up in the hospital bed and thanking God that he was alone with time to think.

He must have drifted off again because, when he opened his eyes, sunlight was no longer pouring through the windows. The bedside lamp was switched on, though, and beneath it sat another glass of water and a bowl of soup. Carefully propping himself up with a pillow, Matze grabbed the bowl and set it on his lap. Only then did he notice what he assumed to be pain pills sitting next to the glass of water. He was silently grateful for the kindness.

Without further hesitation he began on the soup. His stomach was gurgling in anticipation of real sustenance. He truthfully couldn't remember the last time he ate. He hurriedly lifted the spoon to his mouth and almost dropped it in surprise as the beef broth burned his throat. He had half expected the soup to be cold. Schuldig somehow had good enough timing to bring him warm food just before he woke. _But not good enough for him to be here when I got up_, his mind silently added.

He continued eating the broth carefully, shocked at how quickly the simple meal had filled him up. Turning his attention again to the bedstand, he took the pills and finished off the water. Looking at the empty dishes he left on the table he smiled.

If Schuldig was bringing him these things so thoughtfully he couldn't possibly be angry. But he wasn't coming in to visit, either. That was probably a bad sign. Matze frowned. Since the soup had been warm, there was a good chance Schuldig was still in the house somewhere.

With a grunt he swung his legs to the ground and tentatively put some weight on them. His entire body was stiff and sore, most notably between his legs, but it seemed like he'd be able to stand. Carefully leaning on the bedstand he rose to his feet and grasped the nearest bedpost. He experienced the strange sensation of the room spinning while his legs seemed to do the splits. He looked down confusedly and noticed he was still standing quite normally. He frowned and waited a few more moments while the room obeyed his silent threats and settled back in place.

With outstretched arms he walked for the next bedpost, on which hung a forest green bathrobe. Seeing his own state of ill dress, Matze threw it on and tied it securely around his waist. Finally confident that he was no longer in danger of kissing the plush carpeted floor, Matze made for the closed door. He hesitated before opening it, not sure what he would do if he encountered Schuldig – or anyone else, for that matter. For all he knew, they all hated him, including his boyfriend. He looked back at the bed. He'd gone so far; it seemed a shame to turn back. With that weak encouragement he placed a hand on the lever and pulled the door open.

Everything was quiet. Matze suppressed a shudder at the strange feeling of foreboding he got as he glanced both directions down the bare hall. To his left he could see the room he had first awoken in through the slightly open door at the end of the corridor. Directly in front of him was another open door through which he could hear someone humming a chilling melody that he somehow found familiar. Before he realized what was happening he was standing in the doorway, clutching the frame and staring into the single golden eye of a stranger.

The man was lying sprawled on the hardwood floor, surrounded by wax crayons. In front of him was a children's coloring book that he was apparently working in, as his pale fist still clutched a crayon poised above the page. The man stared at Matze unblinking for what seemed like an eternity before he finally spoke.

"You are not sleeping."

Matze was struck at once both by the absurdity of the statement and by the beautiful quality of the speaker's voice. He spoke with a strange melodic lilt that was just as foreign to him as Schuldig's sharply accented Japanese. Matze realized he must be the third roommate Schuldig had mentioned. The one he hadn't met that first day – from the way Schuldig had said it, in fact, they might never have met at all.

"Are you…" he trailed off, the memory of the once-mentioned name eluding him. He cast imploring eyes on the white-haired man, hoping he would understand and fill in the blank for him.

Instead, he merely nodded and returned his focus to his project.

Matze watched transfixed for some time before he realized it was probably rude to just stand in the doorway and gawk. "Why..:" he began, not entirely sure what he was going to ask. Therefore, he was quite grateful when the other man interrupted him.

"I enjoy colors," he said simply, and continued with his crayon on the page, seemingly disregarding the shapes and pictures already printed on it, coloring some strange illustration of his own design across the paper. He dropped the crayon in his hand and scanned around the floor for another color, smiling slightly when he snatched up a reddish-orange. "Did you know," he said, waving the color toward his guest, "that his hair is not this color?" He didn't wait for a response, but went back to work.

Matze assumed that "he" meant Schuldig. And he had never really considered whether his boyfriend was actually a redhead. In all fairness, he hadn't had the time. It was an unnatural hue, to be sure, but the one-eyed man's strange statement set Matze to wondering about Schuldig's true hair color.

Again it was several moments before Matze returned to reality, embarrassed at drifting off into thought in someone else's company. He was even more embarrassed when he found that someone else was staring at him. He seemed to be patiently waiting for Matze to come out of his reverie for, as Matze worked to focus his eyes, the other man grinned and held up a crayon, which he then tossed to Matze.

"This is yours," he said, pulling himself up to sit cross-legged. Matze just stared at the crayon clutched in his own hand. "White." He gave the other man a perplexed look, but he didn't seem about to offer an explanation. Matze fumbled with the belt of the robe while his mind fumbled for something to say.

"What's your name?" Matze finally asked, remembering his failure to procure the information earlier.

The white-haired man gave him a confused stare, as though he had spoken a foreign language. Just when Matze was sure he was not going to receive an answer, he heard something that perplexed him even more.

"You found me, therefore you name me."

Judging by the man's odd demeanor and equally strange appearance, Matze assumed it was the best answer he would get.

"I don't know a name," he said, honestly unsure of how he would like to address the stranger, even if it was only until he discovered his real name from someone else.

"My name is Gabriel," he said with such a bluntness that Matze considered it might be his real name after all.

"Okay, Gabriel," he said with a small smile, "what were you coloring?"

Without a word, Gabriel grabbed the book and held it up for Matze to see. The printed picture had been of a puppy and a beach ball, but somehow the bold black lines had been assimilated into Gabriel's picture so that the original image was hardly distinguishable. Instead, Matze found himself looking at a picture of a tombstone. Piles of flowers were lying in front of it, and three human shadows were visible on the face of the large gray rock. The detail and complexity was amazing, but the right half of the picture was even better. Footprints led away from the back of the grave. At first they were large, but gradually became those of a small child. At the end of the footprints stood the child who had presumably made them – a boy of maybe five with wide eyes and shaggy brown hair. He was looking at a green-haired man who kneeled before him, offering him a single rose.

Matze let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding. He looked at Gabriel to tell him how beautiful his drawing was, but the man's face wouldn't come into focus. As he watched, the pale blur began rocking back and forth, and Matze managed to see it rushing toward him just before he fell backwards.

Nagi was brooding.

He was walking home alone, like always. Other kids were walking with their friends slightly ahead of or behind him, but nobody dared to talk to him. He knew it was because he was strange. They might not know about his telekinetic ability, but they must have known there was something _different_ about him. Why else would they avoid him like a gay Jewish leper?

He chuckled inwardly at his own morbid humor. It wouldn't do to laugh aloud – it would only give them more to talk about. Or maybe it was vanity to think they talked about him – they'd probably grown so used to ignoring him that they didn't even notice him anymore.

His spirits momentarily brightened when his apartment building came into view. Momentarily – until he remembered that the Weiß assassin was there. Not only was he the enemy, regardless of Schuldig's asinine scheming, but he flat out didn't belong. He was allowed to live with them without having a clue as to what they'd been through. He hadn't suffered through the training like they had, didn't still suffer under the sometimes overwhelming power of their mental 'gifts'. Home was supposed to be the one place where Nagi wasn't 'different,' but, because of Schuldig's incessant idiocy, even that sanctuary had been invaded.

Nagi paused at the door to the apartment building. He had to get his thoughts under control – he didn't want Schuldig to know how angry he was making him. The idiot redhead got off on that sort of thing. Just as he was about to enter, a shout came from behind.

"Hey, Nagi!"

It sounded like another student – most likely, if she knew his name. Nagi quickly opened the door and slipped inside. He really wasn't in the mood to be laughed at.

Once inside he was as cool as ever, if not overly frigid. To his delight, he found the house relatively silent: Schuldig was out. He decided to make a break for his room and have himself securely locked in before the German had a chance to come home and start parading his pet around again.

Muted anger once more seeped into his thoughts, distracting him from seeing the white-haired man step into the hall in front of him holding an empty glass and bowl. He had just enough presence of mind to keep the dishes from breaking as both of them crashed to the ground.

He stared at Farfarello briefly as realization dawned on him. Without a word he ran to his room, slamming the door behind him. Even his closest teammate had switched sides.

Schuldig fumbled with his keys at the lock. He cursed when they fell to the ground, but made no move to pick them up. He just didn't want to. If it wouldn't mean dealing with Crawford's bitching in the morning he would gladly have busted the door down. And he would have to pay for it. That made the decision simple enough and, with a resigned sigh, he bent down to retrieve his fallen keys.

He wasn't drunk so much as he was frustrated. He'd been avoiding the apartment for the past 24 hours, though he'd tried convincing himself it was because he'd rather be out partying. In truth, he just didn't want to deal with Matze.

Everyone else was asleep, and he tiptoed cautiously through the living room, hoping they would stay that way. He gently pushed open his bedroom door, pleased that it chose not to squeak for once, and stopped. In his bed lay the one man he didn't want to see, comfortably tucked in and looking as though he had not a care in the world. Schuldig was more than ready to throw the brunet onto the floor and reclaim his own plush bed, but that twinge of guilt that was becoming disgustingly familiar checked him. The boy probably wasn't sleeping – he was _unconscious_. With a menacing huff Schuldig pulled the door closed and angrily stalked into the room at the end of the hall.

Schuldig: You mean to tell me I'm sleeping in the hospital room? I hate it in there!

TT: Well, if you're going to continue to be a bastard you had better get used to it.

Schuldig: I know I'm a 'bastard,' but that's why you love me.

TT: True…

Ken: Hey, Schuldig? What color is your hair?

Schuldig: Unless, of course, you want me to change? I'd do it for you…

Ken: Hey! Are you listening to me?

TT: Oh, um…You're supposed to…urm….Matze…

Schuldig: He wouldn't know…

Ken: Hello?

TT: Aaah! Settle down! Go get laid or something!

Schuldig: I'm trying, but you're not making it easy…


	8. Is your name really 'Matze'

Author: this thorn

Warnings: Schuldig being Schuldig. He's not much of a likable guy, is he? Too bad Ken/Matze is so kind and forgiving towards him. Still, it must be difficult: hundreds of voices in his head, yet he's alone.

A/N: Let's just say that, going into this chapter, I was terrified. I wrote to a friend back home and he gave me some good advice: Hör auf zu heulen. I also need to thank Bine for the reviews. I am so happy that people are actually digging deeper into the story. I wanted to write a story where that sort of thinking was possible. In theory, there shouldn't be any OOC behavior or plot holes. Warn me if you find something: I'll rewrite it on the double!

Bit more note: I know this takes place in Japan, and Japan has an exceedingly homogenous culture, but I filled the Schwarz kitchen with rather diverse foods. They are a diverse bunch, after all, and I can't Schuldig being content with traditional Japanese dishes, delicious though they may be.

Further notage: My dictionary translates 'Schadenfreude' as 'malicious pleasure.' Does that make sense? Bine? I wanted to use the word for Schuldig, but it seems English doesn't have one word for that. Or does it? Does 'malicious pleasure' make you think Schuldig? Ach, I'm confused. On with the story.

After nearly two weeks, the flower shop finally opened its doors again.

Like any other day, swarms of high school girls descended upon the shop, chattering about the boys and buying flowers they didn't want just so Aya wouldn't throw them out.

But something was different. The three employees present looked tired beneath their bright smiles. It might have had something to do with the reason they were closed for so long.

A young blonde girl approached the register with a small bouquet of daisies, blushing when Omi turned his attention to her.

"Just this?" he asked brightly, and took her sudden fit of giggles to mean 'yes.'

Omi passed the flowers on to Youji who, for once, seemed to be spending more time working than talking to the enthusiastic customers. The girl turned back to her friends who rewarded her with jealous glares and a thumbs-up.

"It will be 1000 yen, please." Omi's voice made her turn around, a sweet smile already at her lips as she handed over the money.

Eager to maintain conversation with the cute young florist, she asked innocently, "Where is Ken today?"

Omi visibly stiffened and turned to look at Aya, who had been watering the plants, but was now facing Omi with a hard expression on his face. The youngest employee looked down at his hands and gave a small sigh. "Ken…" he began.

Suddenly, Youji appeared behind him, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and Aya left the hose running on the ground to stand beside them. "Ken went to America," Youji finished Omi's sentence, giving the boy's shoulder a gentle squeeze. "He might not come back," Aya added, a spark of something flickering in his otherwise cold violet eyes.

Youji passed the wrapped bouquet over the counter to the flustered blonde who snatched them, bowed her head and murmured a thank you before disappearing into the crowd. The remaining customers stood transfixed at the sight of their three favorite young men standing together in front of the store and, somewhere near the street, a camera flashed brightly.

Matze awoke confused. It was starting to become a habit: waking up in a strange place and spending the next few minutes piecing together how he got there.

For once, however, he felt he had a decent grasp on the events leading up to his waking in Schuldig's bed again. He'd been speaking with the one-eyed man, Gabriel, if that was his name. Regardless of the truth of it, he found the name somehow fitting, considering the man had carried him back to bed when he had presumably collapsed. And, judging by the white crayon next to a full glass of water on the bedstand, Gabriel was the one who had tended to him the previous day as well.

Which for a third time raised the question: Where was Schuldig? It would seem he hadn't come home at night because Matze was quite neatly tucked in and the pillow next to him looked unused. Matze was both annoyed and uneasy. He had expected from the first that he would simply stick to Schuldig's side while in the house, at least until he got to know his roommates better. They hadn't given him the impression that they liked him or wanted him around.

Instead, he found himself completely alone, except for maybe the kindness of Gabriel. His spirits brightened somewhat when he considered that Bradley and Nagi might prove to be equally amiable, despite their previous coldness, but that still didn't excuse Schuldig for abandoning him. He couldn't be certain of anything regarding his relationship with the redhead before the accident, but he didn't want it to be an affair of mutual neglect, precedent notwithstanding.

With that resolve, he crawled out of bed, noting with some pleasure that his headache was gone and his previous soreness was all but a memory. He also noted, much to his embarrassment, that he was clothed in a pair of comfortably-fitting flannel pajamas. Embarrassment because somebody – probably Gabriel – must have dressed him while he was asleep. He vaguely wondered who the clothes belonged to, Schuldig having already averred that all his own things had been destroyed.

Matze shook the last of his morning musings out of his head and made for the door, wincing as it whined in protest to opening. He hadn't bothered to look for a clock, but by the pale light filtering through the draperies in Schuldig's room, as well as the eerie quiet blanketing the apartment, he assumed it was still rather early. All the other doors in the hallway were closed, to his disappointment, and he briefly entertained the idea that everyone else was still asleep.

That notion was quashed when he entered the kitchen to find Bradley seated at the table sipping from a steaming mug. Judging by the pungent aroma it was coffee and, judging by the nausea it arose in him, he didn't like it. A quick scan of the kitchen revealed no other form of breakfast, and Matze's growling stomach reminded him he'd had nothing but a bowl of vegetable soup since he'd woken up three days ago.

Bradley's attention was focused on a sheet of paper resting on the table, but Matze was hungry enough to risk interrupting him.

"Excuse me," he said apologetically, "but what is there for breakfast?"

"Whatever you make." The other man didn't spare him a glance, but continued sipping his coffee, eyes boring into the single sheet of paper.

Matze was nervous to go digging in the cupboards, but it seemed like he had permission, so he gave a hesitant tug at the refrigerator door. There wasn't much inside: mainly condiments and beverages, but he spotted a carton of eggs in the door and took them out. A search of the cupboards revealed all manners of food in cans and boxes, as well as a loaf of sliced bread which he snatched after noticing a toaster on the counter. Returning to the fridge, he grabbed a tub of margarine and a jar of redcurrant preserves. Thus armed, he set out to prepare his morning meal.

He found the pots and pans beneath the stove, but the frying pan he wanted was on the very bottom. He gingerly attempted to slip the pan out without making any noise, nerves tense in the uncomfortable silence. He met with relative success, and it didn't seem that Bradley cared about the clatter, anyhow.

The older man's disregard convinced him to forgo timidity, and he began unabashedly rummaging through cupboards to find all the miscellaneous utensils he required.

He was just flipping his first pair of over-easy eggs when Schuldig appeared from the hallway, rubbing his neck and looking quite as though he'd slept in his clothes. And, considering his sour expression and uncomfortable wriggling, it hadn't been a particularly good sleep.

"Breakfast?" Matze gestured at the frying pan, trying to sound casual despite his burgeoning unease – it didn't take a genius to see Schuldig was in no mood to answer questions.

The redhead gave the proffered eggs a withering glance, but grunted in a way that implied he would, indeed, like something to eat. He seated himself heavily at the table, and Matze returned to busy himself with the toast. He was suddenly embarrassed to realize he did not know how Schuldig liked his toast. With careful tact, he carried the plate and silverware to the table, along with the margarine and preserves. Schuldig didn't acknowledge him, nor did he begin eating. Instead, he simply stared at the meal in front of him, and Matze anxiously wondered if he'd made some sort of mistake.

When it didn't appear Schuldig would make a move, Matze opted to break the silence. "Something wrong?"

"Coffee," came the mumbled reply.

Matze mentally kicked himself for not thinking about it, especially after noting his boyfriend's worn appearance. A bit of caffeine was probably necessary to get him awake and moving. As he fumbled around for a coffee mug – he'd seen them somewhere in his previous perusing – he spotted Nagi entering the kitchen out of the corner of his eye.

"Good morning," Matze ventured brightly, clutching a bright orange mug to his chest. "Do you want breakfast?"

His only reply was an unmistakably dangerous glare. The young boy then stormed past him, a white-knuckled fist clutching the strap of his bookbag, and slammed the apartment door on his way out.

_Doesn't anyone talk around here in the morning?_ he wondered absently as he filled the mug.

_No. And neither should you._

Matze started. He could have sworn he'd heard Schuldig's voice answer him, but he was looking clearly at the redhead's grimace as he held the coffee – those lips hadn't moved.

With a sigh, Matze returned to the stove and began making his own breakfast. The silence was unsettling, but he didn't want to try starting another conversation – no one seemed to appreciate it anyway.

He seated himself at the table and noticed pleasedly that Schuldig was looking considerably more pleasant than he had upon first entering the kitchen. He decided to hazard a benign comment.

"Do you think …Gabriel… wants breakfast?"

For the third time that morning he was answered with a glare but, for once, words accompanied it. Or _a_ word.

"Who?"

Matze felt the beginnings of a blush. Apparently his first guess had been correct: the name was just part of some awkward game the fourth roommate had been playing with him. He decided the best way to cover his embarrassment at being so easily fooled was to not let the silence draw out.

"The other guy. With white hair and one eye." He meant to simply explain himself, but the shaky quality of his voice made it come out as more of a question.

Schuldig seemed to consider something for a moment before responding. "Yeah, you can take him something," he said with the air of someone bestowing a great favor. "But no silverware," he added as an afterthought. It seemed he had no intention of speaking any more, for he turned his full attention to his still full mug of coffee.

Matze finished his meager meal in silence and set to preparing yet a third installment of eggs and toast for his reclusive roommate. He almost forgot Schuldig's caution about silverware until a mental image of the white-haired man's scarred face and single eye provided him with his own reasons for stowing the fork and knife back in their drawer. His eyes lit briefly upon the still half-full coffeepot, but Schuldig spoke up from the table.

"I'll take him water later."

With one last glance around the kitchen Matze hefted the plate and headed for "Gabriel's" room. He found the situation strange: it seemed the white-haired man refused to leave his room, and all the others humored him. From his small knowledge of Bradley and Nagi, it didn't seem like something that they would do willingly or with any good grace. Matze briefly considered that he might be the one who had always handled the chore; it would explain "Gabriel's" friendly behavior. Speaking of which, he must have left the room to bring him the water and soup the day before. Perhaps the shyness was only a ruse? In the short walk to the closed door he had already severely confused himself. It was probably best to assume that things would become clearer with time.

Matze knocked politely, not wanting to disturb his roommate if he was still asleep. After a second attempt produced still no reply, he gently turned the knob, meaning to place the food on— he paused in thought, realizing he didn't recall any furniture in the room. Well, he'd place it in the room, at least. He smiled pleasedly at the idea of returning the favor.

Whatever he had expected to find when he entered, it was certainly not the sight that met his bulging eyes. The one-eyed man was seated in the middle of the floor drawing intricate patterns on his forearm with what would appear to be a very sharp kitchen knife, judging by the amount of blood staining his pale skin.

Matze had the presence of mind to hang on to the breakfast plate, but beyond that he seemed completely incapable of any action or speech. The other man stopped his carving and turned calmly to face his guest, expression blank and devoid of any recognition. They remained that way for a time, neither moving, until Matze felt sufficiently free of his previous shock to form a coherent sentence.

"Do you want me to get some bandages?" he ventured hesitantly, worrying his lower lip as his eyes roamed the ravaged flesh.

The other man also turned to look at his arm, then the knife in his hand. He considered it as if seeing it for the first time, then, much to Matze's horror, licked it clean with his tongue before settling it gentle next to him on the floor. Somehow the picture didn't hold well with the memory of the innocent coloring he'd been so engaged with only a day ago. Though, recalling the waxen scene he'd been shown, perhaps there had been something more to the childish activity. In fact, he would like a second chance to examine the picture – after he got some rags to clean up his roommate.

He returned quickly from the hospital room wash closet with a damp washcloth, vaguely bemused to see the other man staring intently into his plate of eggs as though he were reading a message there. He continued to stare impassively at the food as Matze gently seized his arm and began tending to his wounds.

As he wiped the vibrant blood away, Matze noted gratefully that the cuts weren't nearly as grave as he'd first thought them. In fact, it seemed they had already ceased to bleed, and he decided it was probably not worth the trouble to hunt for a first aid kit.

He backed away, resting on the balls of his feet and feeling slightly uncomfortable. He wondered whether he should question the other man about his rather shocking art form – and perhaps inquire as to the nature of the scars on his face, as well. But his roommate didn't seem to think anything of it, and Matze decided to let it drop, but not without taking the kitchen knife from the floor. He probably wasn't supposed to have it, if Schuldig's earlier caution had meant anything.

"Gabriel" didn't seem about to say anything, and Matze rose to leave. Suddenly, he stopped at the door, needing to give voice to the question that had bothered him since experiencing Schuldig's confusion at breakfast.

"Is your name really 'Gabriel?'"

Matze had almost begun to think his roommate was nothing more than a cold marble statue, watching him completely unmoving, so it was no wonder he jumped as the lean man mechanically turned his head and something that might have been called a smirk ghosted across his pale lips.

"Is your name really 'Matze?'" he intoned in a startlingly accurate imitation of the brunet's cadence.

Without waiting for an answer, the blonde returned to contemplating his morning meal, leaving Matze utterly baffled and ignored. He studied the other man's profile, looking for any small sign to clue him in on what the last statement meant. The brunet's eyes lit for a moment upon "Gabriel's" wounded arm, and he had the impression that the cuts he once thought life-threatening were nothing more than scratches. All the stress of the past few days must have really gotten to him – overreacting and panicking like a madman. He sighed and returned to the kitchen, carefully laying the knife beside the sink.

He had noticed a strange silence descend upon the room as he'd entered. There had certainly been talking before, else he would not have noticed a change. He directed his attention to the table where he found Crawford once more aloofly perusing his sheet of paper while Schuldig stared at him with undisguised annoyance. His mind was whirling: first Schuldig's coldness, then "Gabriel's" nonsense, and now secret conversations when he left the room. Before he could get a word out regarding his boyfriend's strange attitude, Schuldig was talking.

"Go get dressed. Your clothes are in my room." He seemed finished, but when Matze continued to stand staring at him, slightly hurt by his abrupt command, he amended himself. "In our room. Now go change."

Matze padded off without protest to do just that.

Schuldig stared into his full mug of coffee while he waited for his pet to get dressed. Crawford was right: if he didn't want Matze finding out about his ruse, he needed to act more like a lover. He just didn't want to.

The game wasn't turning out to be nearly as entertaining as he'd anticipated. In fact, the knowledge that he would have to get up and deal with Matze in the morning had been more than enough to discourage him from leaving the decidedly uncomfortable bed. He would have gladly stayed there all day, but he knew he could not. He was trapped.

Schuldig could feel it. Crawford was just waiting for him to give up, to go crazy. To admit that he'd lost control and admit that he was the amateur Crawford always knew he was. The feeling was even worse than the situation itself. Or maybe the situation wouldn't have turned sour if only Crawford had not been there, his gloating presence constantly antagonizing, even though he said nothing. He didn't even care if his arguments were sound: he had every right to blame the precog. He could have easily seen it all coming, but he said nothing. He was enjoying himself, and at Schuldig's expense.

He was well on his way to a stupendously foul mood when a soft voice broke into his internal rant.

"I'm ready. Are we going somewhere?"

The brunet had returned to the kitchen, comfortably clad in a t-shirt and khaki pants, which, Schuldig absently noted, seemed to fit quite well. Matze visibly quailed before the redhead's gaze and Schuldig's scowl only deepened in annoyance.

"It's getting cold. Wear a sweater. That's why I bought them for you," he said flatly, watching as Matze shuffled back to his room like a scolded child. "_Screwed up again…_" Schuldig had to smirk at his pet's train of thought: he was so eager to please. Maybe he wouldn't need to take Crawford's advice after all.

But Crawford never said anything without a reason. Schuldig again felt the infuriating frustration of being left in the dark about something that so obviously concerned him. Between Crawford's silent smugness and Matze's fawning ignorance, he was ready to snap. The telepath suddenly wished he could get into Brad's head and convince him he was a turkey. Or that he was madly in love with Nagi. Schuldig's lips curved in a smile, feeling his bad mood slip away as he considered all the amusing ways he could torture his teammates. The boredom and responsibility of keeping a pet like Matze were stifling - he felt sure he was due for a vacation.

His pleasant daydreams were shattered when Matze returned in a new outfit. The young brunet didn't say a word, but simply stood contritely in the doorway, seemingly quite interested in the cuff of his navy turtleneck. With a long-suffering sigh, Schuldig rose from the table and emptied his coffee into the sink. Suddenly, he grinned.

"You look great." His kitten brightened, offering him a shy smile. It was too easy. He smoothed out the clothes he had worn the night before and retrieved a jacket from the living room closet. "Shall we?" Extending his arm to Matze, he wrapped it around his waist and steered him out the door, feeling in control for the first time all week.

The ride to the supermarket had been easy enough. Matze had spent the entire ride staring out the windows, eyes flicking from building to building, mouth hanging open – but thankfully silent. Schuldig didn't think he could have handled being bombarded with questions when he was already developing a migraine. Damn public transportation.

In truth, he'd expected shopping to be just as painful. It was technically Nagi's turn to get the groceries, but the kid had covered for him while he was stuck babysitting the comatose Weiß assassin. Although it was fair payback, Schuldig had been hoping to sleep in for once – even if in a rock-hard bed.

As soon as they stepped off the bus, Schuldig had to put his hand on Matze's shoulder to make sure they didn't get separated: Matze was acting like it was his first time being in a large city. Feeling the urge to retaliate for all the inane thoughts he'd been drowning in on the bus, Schuldig snaked his hand around to Matze's right side and grasped his hand, resting their interlaced fingers on the younger boy's hip. At the sudden chorus of surprise and outrage that spiked around him, it was all he could do to keep from laughing.

There were other reasons to take Matze with him to the store – beyond having someone to grope and to carry groceries. It was nice to be served breakfast; he was usually willing to go hungry before he expended the effort to cook something at such an ungodly hour of the morning. Or anytime, really. For that reason he'd decided, at some point during his rather riveting breakfast with Brad, to make Matze into his own personal housewife. Judging by the brunet's pallor and poorly concealed discomfort, Schuldig figured he'd be spending at least a few more nights out before he'd be able to fully enjoy the pleasures of his own bed once more. Having his pet cook and run errands seemed a decent way to make up for the inconvenience.

Which was why, at the tender hour of ten in the morning, Schuldig was strolling down a garishly well-lit supermarket aisle helping Matze load his basket with all the items the men of Schwarz enjoyed – namely, food. As they reached the breakfast cereal, the brunet suddenly stopped and turned to Schuldig with shining eyes.

"Can we get a box of this?" he asked with scarcely veiled excitement. "It's my favorite."

"Your favorite?" Schuldig's smirk was mirrored in his voice. He immediately comprehended the importance of the revelation and found it amusing, though nonetheless unsettling.

"Yes," Matze replied, seemingly unaware of the significance of something so simple.

"You remember that?"

The brunet's eyes went wide with comprehension and a genuine smile split his face. Schuldig just watched and listened as Matze tried to probe the minute recollection for all it was worth, discovering, much to his disappointment, that it led no further than a memory of pouring the cereal into a heavy orange ceramic bowl.

Schuldig frowned. He didn't really _want_ Matze to _want_ to remember. While it would undoubtedly make holding him captive more exciting, Crawford would surely run out of patience and demand the Weiß boy killed. The precog took a perverse pleasure in cutting Schuldig's games short.

"Do we have any orange bowls?"

Had Schuldig not been unabashedly eavesdropping on his kitten's thoughts, he might not have had the good grace to act oblivious. "Orange bowls?" He frowned slightly, then rubbed his chin in thought. "We did have one ceramic one once upon a time, but it broke in the sink a while back." Perfect. Matze seemed quite pleased and lowered the box toward the basket, checking once more with Schuldig for approval. Even more perfect.

They wandered through the store for another half-hour, saying very little. Matze occasionally had questions regarding anything from the date to his accident, which Schuldig answered with the ease of a practiced liar: November 10 and having a few too many drinks before climbing to the rooftop.

Schuldig was glad for the lack of conversation; he was thinking. Thinking it might be best to keep Matze in the house where things wouldn't arbitrarily jog his memory. He wasn't quite ready to give up his newest acquisition, not right away. He considered how pleasant it would be to have control over at least one person in a household of men who treated him with cold contempt – grudging respect at best. It was almost tiring constantly broadcasting his skill and confidence to people who didn't respond or acknowledge him. Matze, on the other hand, seemed to hang on his every gesture.

In the long run, the excessive adoration was probably better than being ignored, he reasoned. And he almost choked on laughter whenever he considered what the Weiß assassin would say if he knew how he was behaving with his enemy. Ignorant of the redhead's thoughts, Matze turned and offered him a smile.

Reflecting, the shopping trip was one of the most relaxing he'd ever gone on, and knowing he wouldn't be preparing any of the food purchased made it that much sweeter. Going to the supermarket with Matze hadn't been so bad, after all. What a pleasant surprise.

Schuldig: You know, I picked up a can of whipped cream…

Ken: Please say you're not talking to me.

TT: Not me either, I've had quite enough of you.

Schuldig: Oh? But you're the one writing me. It's your own fault.

Nagi: Stop blaming the author for your idiocy, you moron.

Ken: But she's the one who's trying to hook me up with Schuldig.

Nagi: I don't want to hear you talk, especially not about that.

Schuldig: Jealous, kid?

Farfarello: Guilt is not a sickness, but a symptom.

TT: That's right.

Ken: What?

Schuldig: Stop that! Shouldn't you be locked up somewhere?

TT: Well, it seems he has a lot of fans. Far more than you.

Schuldig: So?

TT: Now who's jealous?

A/N (reprise): Hopefully this longer chapter will keep you happy for a short time. It is finals week, and I am working hard to write essays. I have to analyze "Die Küchenuhr" for 10 pages. Ugh. But that you for the reviews, and keep leaving them. It really doesn't take much time! Just say "write more" and I will be happy. TT


	9. Maybe Ken would want one?

Author: this thorn

Disclaimers: Haven't done this in awhile. Lessee…I don't own _anything_. I do _possess_ a few things, but when their owners find me, I'm sure I will no longer possess them. Thus, Weiß and Schwarz as you know them do not belong to me. And a character by any other name…still does not belong to me.

Warnings: No lemon. Tragic, I know. But this chapter is devoted to character and plot development. I'm told that's important.

A/N: I really didn't want to write about the Weiß guys anymore. I love them to death, and writing from Youji's point of view always makes me feel good, but it takes time away from Schuldig, who undoubtedly has a long way yet to go. So, many thanks to basketcases02 who reminded me I have unfinished business with Aya. That'll be taken care of now. Because it is probably already a bit late and out of place. And…I think it was that same person who rated me an 8/10 in grammar. If I have mistakes, would you be willing to help correct them? I have no beta-reader. Also, I want reviews. This is the first time I've ever written without a specific plan in mind. I need criticism, direction and other things that can aid the next chapter in appearing here sooner than later. I mean, hearing that everyone loves Farfarello just makes my day. As it is, I much appreciate the support and reviews I've gotten. It's so unnerving having people read as I write. The pressure! Thanks again.

More note: From a review or two, it seems Schuldig's reason for taking Ken in in the first place has been lost in the chaos. He wanted to doctor Ken up and try to convince him to stay with Schwarz. He's persuasive and charming; he could probably do it. Just to see what Weiß would do when they found out. And to have the chance to toy with Ken. He wasn't really expecting the whole amnesia thing, but he figured it would be an easy way to get laid. Like having a free prostitute always ready for him. Except Ken is taking the relationship seriously and trying to be a good boyfriend. And, honestly, it's hard to be cruel to someone like that – especially with his big beautiful eyes. For what it's worth, I've put a lot of psychological work into all these characters, Nagi, Schu and Ken in particular. You should be able to analyze them and draw your own conclusions. They are only human, after all. So, there, you're all caught up now. Read away.

Without missions the days seemed to blend together, hours flowing faster than Omi's tears or Youji's liquor. The faceless sea of youthful chatter outside the store came in counterpoint to the silence that pervaded every evening in the shadowed basement where they sat in wait.

Admittedly, things had gotten better – almost normal, even. At least, it seemed normal after the emptiness that followed Ken. Ken's death. Youji drank in instead of out and Omi cried soundlessly with the slightest provocation, but it was no longer the isolated morbidity of those first few days. And they always, always spent evenings home together in the basement. The reason might have been their need to hold on to something familiar, or just that nobody wanted to be first to break what had unwittingly become a tradition.

Aya rolled onto his side and pillowed his arm beneath his head. He couldn't see his clock, but he knew it was very late: he had become quite intimate with restless nights. The quicksand uncertainty of the darkness mirrored his own thoughts, like watching his mind projected on an invisible screen, reminding him nightly of the burden he secreted. Things had changed between himself and the remaining assassins. They had become more serious, without a doubt, but they had also grown closer. That closeness was the very thing that was beginning to worry Aya.

He wondered if they would be so accepting if they knew the whole truth.

It couldn't have been more his fault if he'd run Ken through with his own katana. Retrospect had the infuriating tendency to make memory clear and detached, showing events devoid of the passion that caused them, splaying motivation for brutal inspection. For once, he gave a mission a second thought. He'd charged blindly into what had undoubtedly been planned as a distraction or a trap. They knew he'd do it. And what choice did Ken have but to go in and cover for his mistake? The error was clear and the guilt was gnawing at him, keeping him awake, but he couldn't bring himself to tell the others. He'd already lost one family; he had no desire to lose another, especially so soon after first finding it.

He could kill Reiji Takatori to avenge his parents and sister, but how would he ever make things right for Ken? His mouth contorted into a pained frown and he buried his head beneath his pillow before his thoughts could get any further. Retrospect was close friends with desolation. He held the edges down tightly and prayed he would just pass out.

Alone at the desolate end of a lunch table, Nagi sat consulting a textbook to distract himself from the grating pain in his stomach. It had been bad enough to have to miss breakfast because of him, but being denied the opportunity to pack a lunch has him grinding his teeth as he stared at the lines of rambling text.

"Hey, Nagi!"

Against all logic, he'd hoped that if he didn't think 'This can't possibly get any worse' it wouldn't. After all the movie clichés, it seemed a decent bet. Though, Nagi acknowledged, he'd never been lucky in life. He placed his index finger firmly on a line of text and began gliding at across the page, emphasizing his focus on the material to his latest tormenter.

"Nagi!"

A different voice. It seemed they wanted to gang up on him. He wasn't in the mood, nor had he any intention of responding to their gibes, and to show it, he turned away and began shoving his book into his rucksack. Unfortunately, the other students didn't seem willing to let their victim slip away so easily.

"Hey, Nagi! Wait up!"

"Yeah, what are you doing this weekend?"

"We're making a science video at my house and then going swimming. You wanna come?"

The voices screeched and overlapped, begging him to stay and amuse them. Nagi stood quietly and went for the exit. _They want my help. They only want to use me, to use my 'abilities.'_ He sneered toward the wall, but remained dignified until he was in the hall. Then he ran for his classroom without looking back.

Aya ran his slender fingers over the keys, for once not caring whether anybody made a purchase, or whether there were customers at all. Omi was out on a delivery, and Youji was entertaining a gaggle of chattering girls in the back of the shop. Despite the ambient noise, it was rather peaceful. They seemed to know better than to approach the redhead at the register.

He hadn't looked in the mirror since getting up, and vaguely wondered if his lack of sleep was evident in his appearance. Youji hadn't mentioned anything, at least. Either way, he was glad he had a day away from the inane babble and Omi's watery eyes – it was getting to him more than he was willing to let on.

"Excuse me, Aya?"

Aya started from his daze and tried to focus his eyes on the speaker. She was young and blonde, and seemed rather familiar, even though dozens of girls visited the shop every day. Suddenly the memory hit him and he cautiously met her steady gaze. Did she know?

Her words finally registered before the thought could proceed any further, and he realized she was waiting for his reply.

"Yes?" he said gruffly, his throat still thick from sleep.

The girl's face suddenly flamed red and she stared down at something she was holding below the counter. It seemed strange that he should be so alone with her. Nobody else had attempted to approach all day, and the more he thought about it, the more his mind swam with apprehension.

"I…" she stammered, worrying her lower lip, "I…yesterday…Omi said that Ken…well, it's almost his birthday." She looked up to Aya, probably seeking some form of confirmation. Aya merely nodded his head, and she continued. "I have a present for him, and I was wondering…well, could you send it to him? In America?"

Aya stared at the daintily wrapped package she thrust at him. Again she was waiting for an answer; again she was staring at him. He hurriedly snatched the box without thinking and mumbled agreement, unwilling to meet her gaze. He waited for the sound of her retreating footsteps, but it never came. She was still standing there, watching him, and Aya quickly snapped to attention, feeling like a fool for cowering before her, clutching the tiny package like a talisman.

She seemed embarrassed by Aya's discomfiture and began stammering again.

"I…I have th…these, too." She thrust a small envelope across the counter and drew her trembling hand back to clutch the other at her chest. "My…friend took them yesterday and…we have, like, a million copies." She offered a shy smile, but it vanished when she chanced a glance at Aya's face. "We just thought, you know, maybe Ken would want one?"

Aya said nothing, but stared at the envelope as though he could somehow divine its contents without opening it. She hadn't moved. She was probably waiting again.

"Thank you," Aya rumbled tonelessly.

"Oh, it…well, it's nothing!" Her face was once again flushed and she lowered her head shyly. "I have to go. Bye!"

She disappeared from the shop in an instant, snatched the arm of a girl waiting outside and scurried off down the street, heads tilted together conspiratorially.

Aya sighed and picked up the envelope, resting it on top of the package as he headed for the house. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed Youji watching him, but he didn't want to explain any more than he wanted to open the young girl's gifts. He laid them on the kitchen counter and went back to work.

"You never told me what we're doing with the kitten."

Crawford knit his eyebrows in annoyance, but continued filing the papers at his desk. Forcing the precog to reveal his plans was bitter and Schuldig, for once, had no desire to play games. The American was having too much fun with him already.

"Brad," he said warningly.

Crawford slammed his pen firmly on the desk and began rubbing his temples, studiously broadcasting his desire to be left alone.

"He will stay here."

Normally Schuldig would be quite pleased to see Brad so discomfited by his hand, but the matter had been bothering him ever since he'd returned from shopping, and he didn't have much time before Matze finished putting away the groceries and came looking for him. He took a step into the room and carefully closed the door behind him, glaring at it as though he dared it to let a single word slip out.

"And how do we keep him from running away?"

Crawford permitted himself a small smirk.

"Farfarello will remain here. This assignment does not agree with him."

"I didn't think you wanted him dead already." He congratulated himself on sounding indifferent. Not for the first time, Schuldig was glad he was the only mind-reader in the house.

Crawford sighed heavily and Schuldig knew the American was begrudging him every word he spoke.

"He has stayed with him before. There will be no trouble." He spoke with an unmistakable finality that was as much a demand to be left in peace.

Schuldig slipped out the door, content in the answers he'd received, and also in the certainty that Brad believed he was still in complete control.

Aya rolled onto his side and pillowed his arm beneath his head.

Again.

He should have expected another long night. He had tried all afternoon to forget about the package and envelope sitting on the counter, but every time he passed by his eyes seemed drawn to them, compelled to seek out the source of his torment.

Omi and Youji must have noticed the strange trinkets, but neither had breathed a word about it.

The silent evening had been even more agonizing as they sat together, watching hour after hour of primetime television. Despite the physical closeness of his teammates, Aya had felt singled out, isolated with his secret.

For a horrifying instant he'd considered the possibility that the lack of missions was due to Ken's death. Were they investigating what really happened? Would they remove Aya from Weiß? – kill him?

He considered all the way he'd failed his sister and, for the first time, how he'd failed his team. For a brief instant, his quest for revenge struck him as foolhardy, and he felt a constricting ache take hold in his chest.

Without a word he had prematurely departed the basement and retreated to his room.

Aya made no move to check the clock. It was late, of that much he was certain. He'd heard Youji go to bed some time earlier, but it could have been minutes or hours since. Time seemed to pass so slowly to his fatigued perception.

His eyes burned with need for sleep, but his troubled mind would not obey. He tossed and turned several more times, seeking comfort to lull him into even a temporary slumber. Without realizing he'd made a decision, Aya rose and went downstairs, almost shocked to find himself standing before the package on the kitchen counter. Resignedly, he lifted himself onto a stool and began examining the wrapped box with his hands.

He turned it for several minutes, fingering the folds and tape delicately, before it truly sank in. Ken would never open it.

Without further deliberation, his nimble hands divested the box of its patterned paper and laid it open on the countertop. Inside he beheld a silver whistle, the metal reflecting the meager light in the kitchen as he pulled it from the box. It dangled and glinted in the moonglow as he held it by its cord.

The whistle was nothing special: solid in color, no definitive markings or symbols. He then inspected the cord in his hands, moving it about arbitrarily so the light caught it. Having no luck, he rose and shuffled to the window, holding the cloth close to the cold glass.

The band was wide, made of a pale, stiff fabric. But what caught his attention was the pattern: soccer balls.

Aya felt a pang of regret and the suddenly familiar tightening in his chest as he listlessly made his way back to the stool.

Ken had made it no secret that he wanted to return to soccer – try his hand at coaching kids – 'when it was all over.'

Aya wondered how many times he'd heard the brunet mention it – how many times he'd scoffed and walked away. For the second time in one night he cursed himself for his blind fixation on killing one man. He knew his sister would be angry with him for treating a friend so poorly.

With a heavy heart, he buried his head in his folded arms, wondering how he'd let things go so horribly wrong.

The evening was quiet. Matze flipped through all the channels a second time, planning to stop when something caught his interest.

Nothing did.

Slightly dismayed, Matze cast around the living room for something – anything – to alleviate his boredom.

The others had left together an hour earlier for a business meeting, though Schuldig had avoided telling him what manner of business the gathering entailed. Apparently even Nagi was involved, although he was still a high school student.

According to Bradley, though, he hadn't been left home alone. 'Your friend will remain here with you,' he'd said with a smirk, disappearing out the door before Matze could ask any more questions.

Matze assumed his 'friend' was Gabriel, but he seen neither hide nor hair of the man since the others left. He'd taken lunch to the blonde's room a few hours before, retrieving a pair of paring knives from his bedstand in the process, but he'd been asleep and Matze had quietly returned to his chores.

After washing the dishes, he'd done laundry and tidied up the living room. He appreciated the work: it gave him a chance to feel useful and to get to know the personalities of his roommates better, sorting through their things at his leisure. And, really, it wasn't only to learn about them that he treated all their belongings with such reverence; he hoped almost hungrily to find something that would trigger another memory, much like the cereal in the store.

Unfortunately, he had no such luck in the cleaning, and had even less chance to talk to Schuldig about it. The redhead had disappeared while he was cleaning, and only turned up again to say he would be gone for the night to a business meeting.

It wasn't that Matze didn't trust the information Schuldig so happily gave him whenever he tried to fill the gaping maw of his memory, but that he was plagued by a nagging feeling of _wrongness_. He still felt like an outsider, trapped in the spacious apartment, a witness to the events but unable to truly participate. He couldn't find anything that spoke to him, made him comfortable in the starkly undecorated rooms.

And Matze was bored. Even though he had only hours earlier been elbow-deep in his roommates' undergarments, he could not bring himself to go rummaging through closets and cupboards to find something to amuse himself. After becoming tired of his battle with the television, he settled for exploring the world below with his eyes.

In winter the sun set early, pulling the chill and mystery of obscurity up behind it. Buildings stood stark and menacing, blacker than the starless sky, looming over the parody of life playing out several stories below. Headlights passed in and out of the human drama, strobing scenes of couples strolling arm in arm, a woman jogging with her dog, and the inevitable homeless cowering beneath storefronts, arms wrapped tightly about their rags. Really, from a removed perspective, it was no different than television. Staring out the window at the evocative shadows may have held him rapt for a time, but the creeping cold that attacked and numbed his pale hands reminded him all too quickly of the acute fatigue his healing body was subject to, and he heavily shuffled off to bed.

Outside his room, he stopped to glance at Gabriel's door, then did a double-take. The door was closed as it had been all day – Matze had never heard it open, but it must have. He gingerly ran his fingertips over the engraved surface, shocked that he hadn't heard it happen. Precisely carved into the thin dark wood was a passage:

'Then it shall be, because he hath sinned, and is Guilty, that he shall restore that which he took violently away, or the thing which he hath deceitfully gotten, or that which was delivered him to keep, or the lost thing which he found'

Matze reread it, absorbing the details with his fingers, his tired mind barely able to grasp the words, yet alone their meaning. It was as distant as the beggars in his reality movie. With a sigh, he turned into his own room.

For the first time he noticed the brittle ache of his skin beneath his clothes and chose to forgo changing, for fear of losing what little warmth he still retained. Not for the first time he wished he weren't alone: the soft sheets were cold even against his frozen fingers and the daunting expanse of the bed sent a shudder coursing through his body. With a small mewl of sadness, he tugged the blankets close to him and curled into himself, letting his own breath warm him as his mind grew black.

Youji sat up in bed, snatching his watch from the bedstand.

He never woke in the middle of the night unless something woke him. The house was nestled in a business district: as the various shops locked their doors the street emptied like a sinking ship and the only sound became the wind whistling down the corridor of buildings.

Even as a trained assassin, Youji sometimes found himself uneasy wandering the barren neighborhood after business hours. The police were, as a rule, occupied with monitoring the nightlife beneath the neon glow of a thousand bars and dance clubs, leaving the deserted districts as playgrounds for less upstanding nocturnal activities. Youji himself had on more than one occasion played the white knight to a screaming damsel behind a shop.

But after listening intently for several minutes with skin prickling and every sense fully alert, Youji felt content that no foolishly oblivious thief had penetrated his home. Still, he was nervous about his abrupt awakening, and padded to his wardrobe to retrieve a pair of slippers: protection against the chill flooring. He had asked more than once, and in varying degrees of earnestness, to have carpeting installed – at least in his room – so he might be willing to get out of bed in the morning. Predictably, no one had believed his late sleeping had anything to do with cold feet, and his flooring remained severe and unforgiving.

He shuddered as he grasped the cold door handle and thought better of himself, returning to the wardrobe for a t-shirt. The hallway was dark and Youji's vision was confused as he trailed his fingers lightly along the wall, descending the stairs by touch and memory. The clatter of his slippers on the wood seemed explosively loud, but there was no sound from the kitchen or living room to indicate anyone had heard him. With a sudden gasp, Youji released the breath he hadn't realized he was holding and his chest pounded in reply.

He scrubbed his face and wondered at the reason for his untoward tension. Could it be Ken? The loss of their friend had certainly given the dangerous reality of their profession an undeniable clarity, so irrefutably real that even a casual smile and a pack of cigarettes couldn't make him unknow the truth. He glanced back up into the darkness where he knew the other bedroom doors were, and wondered if it was truly just a job.

As he rounded the corner into the kitchen his legs stopped, and he had to grab the wall to keep from falling over as the rest of his body continued to move forward. Although the sight must have registered on some level, Youji couldn't seem to consciously grasp the scene – or lack thereof – before him.

Aya sat at the kitchen counter, stiller than the darkness that seemed to shift around him, cloying and heavy, though, through some preference or perhaps reverence for the marble beauty on the stool, shying from his pale skin so only his face and hands were visible. Those hands were fisted one about the other, holding his head up at the mouth as his dark eyes bored into the gloom, though Youji knew they were staring inward.

It was a pensive posture, tired and restless, and though it looked to be Aya seated before him, Youji knew it could not be further from the truth. Even at a distance he fancied he could feel the weight of the redhead's thoughts; it was almost tangible, suffocating in the stagnant air like a murderous extension of the statuesque being sitting outside the world. It was all wrong. Aya did not silently fade into the shadows of obscurity, meekly letting grief wear away his strength. When Aya vanished it was an act of will, a skillful reminder of his mastery of himself and the uncertainty and pain that seeped into his footprints the moment he left them.

In the lifeless man before him was none of the confidence and presence that consistently radiated from their leader, shifting the very air around him, whether he was wielding a sword or preparing breakfast. Instead there showed only an immeasurable fatigue – both bodily and emotional – that Youji himself had felt on occasion after an especially trying mission, but which he had never expected to see in Aya.

He hesitated before approaching, his reason vanished into the thin light, fearing the vision before him would crack and crumble into so much dust should he try to profane it with words. He stole another moment from the timelessness to orient himself before entering the kitchen, eyes never leaving the seemingly oblivious man at the counter.

Youji placed himself in the path of those unfathomable eyes, yet the image did not change. He continued to stand and stare, but he went unacknowledged so adeptly that, had Aya not blinked every few moments, Youji would have been fretfully reaching across the counter to check for a pulse. In doubt of ever receiving a response should he amass the nerve to pose a question, Youji began scanning about for a codex to his friend's mysterious behavior. He didn't have to look far.

In front of Aya's elbows on the countertop rested a box containing a metal whistle and a pair of photographs lying atop an envelope. Youji tentatively reached for the photos, sliding them across the counter with one finger, but always keeping his eyes on the redhead as though worried he might attack anyone who stole his treasure. As he lifted the laminated paper to his face a droplet of water rolled off the edge, and Youji winced as it hit the bare top of his foot, but said nothing of it. There was nothing to say.

It was impossible to make out the details in the dark, but Youji knew the scene in the picture as though he were still there – it had been only two mornings ago. He, Aya and Omi were standing together at the front of the flower shop, bleak smiles plastered on their faces, acting out the play they had so reluctantly rehearsed for a crowd of sentimental young girls. It was, as photographs went, a nice piece: close up, clear, colorful. Only one thing was missing, and as the thought struck Youji, he looked from the photo to see Aya's searing eyes searching his, cheeks flushed darkly.

Sliding the pictures to the side Youji leaned onto his forearms, meeting Aya's troubled gaze evenly. They were so close; it would only take a few words to bridge the gap that was looming so hungrily between them.

"Aya, it wasn't..:"

"Takatori."

The hoarsely croaked word hit Youji full in the face and his eyes widened in understanding even as he was lithely climbing over the counter and wrapping his arms around his shivering friend. No more words were necessary; they didn't need to talk it out. They were the same, after all, dark beings navigating the shadows in the name of light, living with the desperation of men without futures.

Youji stood there, feeling the clawing hands clutching at his sleeve, an unnamable pain welling up inside his chest as his vision darkened, and he was 10 years old again, lost and looking for answers in a world that didn't care what became of him as he wandered ever onward, telling himself with the innocent conviction of a child that he would be found one day.

With a jolt he opened his eyes to the red head beneath him as he suddenly realized the truth of war. Taking a deep breath he overcame the constriction in his throat and spoke into the soft dark hair.

"We do what we have to, Aya, and sometimes…sometimes we have to lose."

He scrabbled desperately at the edges of a dream, but it dissolved between his fingers until it was nothing more than dewy haze and he found himself again lying in bed. Vaguely he realized that something had woken him, but he didn't understand it until the mattress dipped and he rolled toward another warm body that was sliding beneath the covers next to him.

Matze let a small smile stretch his lips, but kept his eyes closed, just in case it was only a dream within a dream.

Schuldig: Wow. That was…heavy.

TT: Hey, you're not so trim, yourself!

Ken: I think he meant the story.

TT: Well, that's because it was mostly about Weiß.

Youji: Hey, you're the one who killed off our teammate!

TT: You're better off without him, anyway.

Ken: …

Nagi: Agreed. We'd _all_ be better off without him. Can you write Farfarello into a murderous rage?

TT: As unexpected as it would be, it might damage Farfarello's impressive fan base. I can't be responsible for that.

Nagi: Then may I please go home from the mission sick? I look foolish in a suit, anyway.

Schuldig: We could always try you _out _of that suit…

TT: Enough. You're getting some next chapter. Hornochse.

Schuldig: It had better be good…

Yet another A/N: First off, I really put a lot of work into this chapter. It is so crammed with psychology and deeper meaning, my roommate almost strangled me when I explained all the intricacies to her. So, please, feel free to do some digging in this one. Also, the next chapter is sex. That's all. Still intrinsic to the plot, though, thus I will provide a summary of it at the beginning of Chapter 11 for anyone who chooses not to read the smut. Bear with me, this may take a few days. I have finals this week and I just might need to study. I skipped a lot of class to write these first nine chapters!


	10. It's only a dream

**A/N:** Well, I had a long and humble note full of apologies written for this chapter, but that's on my computer, which I am currently without. (That's one of my excuses.) But the important thing to note is that this chapter is, while intrinsic to the plot, still a sex scene. Due to the rules of fanfiction(dot)net, I cannot post it here. Instead, I will provide a summary for the faint of heart that explains all the major plot points you'll miss by not reading it. For the rest of you, I've set up a livejournal to host not only the smutty chapters, but indeed all my stories. You can find it by going to livejournal(dot)com and searching for user thorn(underscore)stories. Leave comments there or here, it doesn't matter, but I'd like it if I could contact you in return to respond to your reviews.

**Quote of the chapter:** "…waking was supposed to be a slow and solitary process, a time of matted hair, stink and stubble, rumpled clothes and breath that could kill a cow at twenty paces. It was hardly a condition to make a man feel sexy; Schuldig knew for a fact he wouldn't touch his 10am self with a ten-foot pole, and he was irresistible to begin with."

**Summary:** Schuldig wakes in bed next to Matze and, glad to have him quiet and not so simpering, decides to take advantage of the opportunity. At first, he undresses Matze, mentally convincing him that it's only a dream, but he soon grows tired of the ruse. Schuldig likes the sounds Matze makes, but remains silent himself (part of Schuldig's whole 'control' theme).

There is a point in the course of things that Schuldig feels a bite of conscience, recalling that Matze is something of a permanent roommate, and, consequentially, decides to treat Matze decently ('nicely' would be going a bit too far).

At the end, Matze grabs Schuldig's face somewhat tenderly and kisses him. Schu is confused and suddenly founds himself out of his depth. When Matze immediately falls asleep, Schuldig rather mechanically cleans up and goes out, many things weighing heavily on his mind.

The next chapter is more than half-done. I'll post soon, as an apology to all those who waited nearly 9 months for this chapter. And, as still further apology, 3 of the 5 sections of the next chapter are Farfarello's POV.


	11. And often a lie is not a lie

**Title: By the Book  
Author: this thorn**

A/N: Oh, how exciting! Another chapter. And, despite previous reservations, I wrote three Farfarello sections this chapter. Those would be the first, third and fifth. It might be hard to tell. Beyond that, please review! I've got a lot of things to do, so I've decided I won't work on Chapter 12 until I get 5 reviews. Egotistical? Of course.

**Chapter: And often a lie is not a lie**

* * *

_One billion, nine hundred seventy-seven million, three hundred twenty-six thousand, seven hundred forty-three._

**They scurry and run: someone rages, someone hurts, someone smiles, someone works: SLAM! then three.**

"I have become sounding brass or a clanging cymbal."

And all things must first be born to grow.

_Two hundred eighty-two million, four hundred seventy-five thousand, two hundred forty-nine._

And all things which start are born, following a star chosen long ago.

"Though I give my body to be burned,"

_Forty million, three hundred fifty-three thousand, six hundred seven._

"It profits me nothing."

**They scamper and scurry: no one sees anyone and someone blames everyone: SLAM! then two.**

"Suffers long and is kind"

_Five million, seven hundred sixty-four thousand, eight hundred one._

"Does not envy"

_Eight hundred twenty-three thousand, five hundred forty-three._

"Does not parade itself"

And knowing is the better of remembering, though both take time and strife.

_One hundred seventeen thousand, six hundred forty-nine._

"Does not behave rudely, does not seek its own, is not provoked, thinks no evil"

And often a lie is not a lie.

_Sixteen thousand, eight hundred seven. Two thousand, four hundred one._

"Does not rejoice in iniquity, but rejoices in truth."

And always, things change.

_Three hundred forty-three. Forty-nine. Seven._

**They hurry and worry: one rests and is content, one is restless and disturbed: SLAM! then one.**

_One._

"For now we see in a mirror, dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part, but then I shall know just as I also am known."

* * *

Nagi screamed. 

The sound echoed in the small concrete bathroom and the resulting cacophony throbbed in his ears.

"Shit!" he yelled, and winced.

Thereafter, he confined his cursing to viscous whispers.

He was hiding in the men's room – hiding from a girl – and far from pleased about the circumstances. To be truthful (and, as a result, ashamed), Nagi had never considered how to handle someone who wasn't discouraged by his glares and silence.

She had met him outside his first class, throwing up an arm to bar his way when he tried to ignore her. It was about her party. Her study party.

Did he want to come?

He attempted in vain to push past her.

There would be pizza and bowling.

He shot her a piercing glare that would have sufficiently cowed any other human being.

They'd do the project real quick on Saturday afternoon and still have time to go swimming.

He wanted nothing more than to strangle her but, despite his searing annoyance, he understood that murdering a girl in a crowded school would not go over well, no matter how much he knew she deserved it.

Thankfully, she'd chosen that moment to glance at her watch and, with a small squeak, ran off to class.

Only to reappear at lunch, completely recharged and ready to wheedle. Nagi hadn't given her a chance to get started: the moment she opened her mouth he'd run, dignity to the wind, for the restroom. Where, after one hearty yell, he stood alone, devising a plan of attack – or a plan of escape.

The girl was a problem. There was something unsettling about her persistence and Nagi suddenly found himself considering his classmate as more than just an innocent high-schooler. It was only the barest framework of a suspicion, but what other reason could she have for pursuing him so relentlessly? Nagi tried to scold himself for being paranoid, but once the idea took hold in his mind, he couldn't seem to shake the notion.

Nobody was supposed to know about his 'gift,' least of all a complete stranger. Looking in the mirror, Nagi carefully schooled his features into a passably cold expression and tried to think like Prodigy, tried to make a decision.

He couldn't stay. He would go home. He would talk to Farfarello.

The madman could make his excuses to the principal and the girl would not be able to find him again before the 'party.' He pursed his lips in a grim smile. Simple.

Hefting his bag onto his shoulder, Nagi threw a cursory glance around the empty bathroom before casually stepping into the nearly empty hallway. Almost everyone was still at lunch; he could leave unnoticed.

As though spurred by his relief, a sudden shrilled voice called from behind him.

"Nagi! There you…!"

"No." He spoke clearly, without turning around, and left.

* * *

Once upon a time there was a princess who lived in a tall, tall tower. 

The chamber was small and devoid of interest: the princess had long since outgrown the few toys that gathered dust near the stone walls. By day, she sang or recited to herself tales she had long since memorized from the thin storybooks in her room. And when the sun set, stealing her only source of light, she slept.

There was only one room in the tower, and the princess was forced to defecate in a bucket which she dumped out the window every morning, the knowledge of her waste in the grass spoiling her enjoyment of the view.

Her hair grew long and ratty with the years; the grime on her skin disguised the unhealthy pallor of a young woman too long indoors.

Her clothes were rags: a collection of her childhood gowns torn and draped to cover and protect her thin body from the cold that often found its way into the tower.

She was miserable.

Finally, one morning, she woke early, before her customary breakfast tray was delivered, and sat, eyes fixed on the door. The servant who soon entered with a plate in her hands and a rag about her face started when she saw the princess awake and watching her. But before she could comment, the girl jumped to her feet.

"You shall escort me to my father, the king," she commanded in an authoritative, yet brittle voice.

The servant curtsied awkwardly with the tray and spoke from behind the muffling cloth: "Of course, if you'll follow me?"

The princess, stunned by the ease of her escape, followed the older woman closely, frantically trying to keep her rags from falling from her body as she walked. Suddenly she was ushered into a large room and the door closed behind her.

There was no time for surprise at her surroundings to register, for a tall, graying man in a light shirt and pants was already walking toward her. It had been many years, to be sure, but she knew immediately that it was her father.

"Shelly, sweetie! I thought I'd never see you again!" he exclaimed, a broad smiled on his face and his arms outstretched.

The princess backed away from his embrace, confusion and anger making her voice quake. "How long did you intend to keep me imprisoned? How long must I wither, waiting for my prince!"

Her father blinked deliberately, stunned by the ferocity in her tone. Then he smiled, sympathetically.

"Haven't you eaten yet today, honey? I know you told us to leave you alone, but I can hardly let you go hungry. Let's go raid the kitchen, put something in that pretty little tummy of yours."

The princess took a moment to digest the words, feeling a vague inkling of something like fear. "What do you mean, 'I told you to leave me alone?'" she bit out.

"What?" he replied, looking genuinely baffled. "You don't remember saying that all those years ago, when you stormed off and locked yourself in that musty old tower? You said you never wanted to see me again" – here his face fell – "even after I agreed to have your pony's stable moved into your room."

The princess stared, not quite remembering, but somehow knowing his words were true. "Oh," she replied, dazedly.

"Good!" said her father, his pleasant mood restored. "Now let's go eat and then we'll get you all cleaned up. Oh, and speaking of princes, Carter was just here – you just missed him – asking about you. He's been so worried. Here, take my cell phone and give him a ring. He kept asking if we'd locked you up there and I kept saying, 'No sir, my boy, we're just waiting for her to come out.'"

_(--written with my finger on the tower stone)

* * *

_

Matze awoke with a start, surprised to find the bright midday sun streaming into the bedroom. He blinked a few times, recognizing the room he was in, but only truly noticing it for the first time. The darkly-painted walls shimmered and the cream curtains billowed in a gentle breeze – he saw bemusedly that one set of curtains was hanging directly on the wall, without a window behind it. It seemed, in fact, that they were the only superfluity in the room: there were no decorations beyond the elegant wood furniture and bedside lamp. Still, it was pleasant, comfortable and, most importantly, it was becoming familiar.

The brunet pulled himself to a sitting position and stretched leisurely, feeling rested and alert for the first time since waking from the coma. The quiet was peaceful, and Matze was warm and content.

Then memory struck like a lightning bolt and his face flamed red.

Quickly Matze cast his eyes about the room, looking for any sign that Schuldig was still around. Upon finding nothing, he then directed his scrutiny to the bedclothes and nightstand, looking for any sign that Schuldig had been there at all.

_Maybe it_ was _just a dream._

Despite the explicitly clear images prancing through his mind, more vivid than any fantasy, all the evidence on hand seemed decidedly against the notion of a morning tryst with the elusive redhead. The room was organized to the point of being sterile, the only disturbance in the order of the sheets was that he himself had made with his abrupt awakening and, most disappointingly of all, Matze realized that he was still completely clothed.

The idea that he not only could not recall his past was disturbing enough but, with the realization that he was beginning to 'remember' things that had never truly happened, Matze felt himself growing nauseated.

He was scared, suddenly and horrifically alone. He couldn't believe that the world he was seeing was real; not with everything spinning out of control, always just beyond his grasp. He wanted to talk to someone.

With frenetic haste, Matze tried to climb out of bed, but only became tangled in the sheets and panicked even more. His knew his struggles were working against him, but fear more than overpowered reason. In a flail of arms and fabric, he rolled and thudded onto the floor and began tearing away the cloying sheets without pause. In a matter of moments he was on his feet and running for the door – then stopped.

A tingling ache throbbed heavily in his nether regions, and a slow smile crept across his face even as his mind replayed the events of the previous evening. It had to be true. It had to be true and he was grinning like a fool.

He might have stood there for hours, exalting in both the memory of the early morning and the simple triumph of achieving the recollection, but his stomach growled loudly enough to shatter his reverie. With a sigh and a futile effort to suppress his idiotic grin, he pulled open the door and, for the second time that morning, froze in shock.

He could hear voices. More specifically, the voice of an announcer. Cheers and whistles that could only mean soccer.

Matze made a mad dash for the TV. Breakfast could wait.

* * *

A mouse was scamp'ring down the hall  
I caught him in a hamster ball  
Then nailed him firmly to my wall  
And this is what he said: 

_Through the forest have I gone.  
__But Athenian found I none,  
__On whose eyes I might approve  
__This flower's force in stirring love.  
__Night and silence.—Who is here?  
__Weeds of Athens he doth wear:  
__This is he, my master said,  
__Despised the Athenian maid;  
__And here the maiden, sleeping sound,  
__On the dank and dirty ground.  
__Pretty soul! She durst not lie  
__Near this lack-love, this kill-courtesy.  
__Churl, upon thy eyes I throw  
__All the power this charm doth owe.  
__When thou wakest, let love forbid  
__Sleep his seat on thy eyelid:  
__So awake when I am gone;  
__For I must now to Oberon._

* * *

A/N v2.0 : Thank you to Mister Shakespeare for that last bit.

Nagi: What, you didn't write it?

TT: Ouch. So cruel.

Nagi: _You're _the one who put an enemy in my home and a spy in my school.

Matze: GODDAMMIT! _How_ could you have missed that _shot_?

Nagi: Look at him: he's a Neanderthal!

Matze: Huh? Wuh? Hey guys, have you seen Schuldig?

Nagi: Bugger off and die, Weiss. goes to room

Matze: Wuh? Thorn? Where's Schuldig?

TT: Um... goes to room

Matze?


End file.
